


The Sweetest Mockery

by PresidentHades



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hunger Games Tributes, Tribute Escape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 85,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PresidentHades/pseuds/PresidentHades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ember Abernathy, daughter of two Victors, volunteers for the 74th Games to ensure her brother survives. Instead of certain death in the arena, she ends up leading 23 tributes to District 13 after her Gamemaker sister sabotages the Games. But the tributes are abandoned as rebellion erupts, so Ember and Cato alone lead the journey into the wild amidst new friendships and romances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

My father deals a bruising blow to my arm. I yelp and nurse the battle wound, pouting. “Dad, I wasn’t ready!”

“Do you think the other tributes in the arena are going to wait for you to be ready?” Dad growls. “C’mon, Ember, what do I always tell you? What do I tell you all the time?”

“Always be ready,” I mumble.

“Exactly. _That_ was, as you said, not ready. If this were the actual Games, you’d be short one arm and dying from blood loss, sweetheart.” He taps his wooden sword against his thigh, contemplating if he should extend our sparring session. But he relents and dismisses me. “You’re done for the day. Go clean up. Your mother should have brunch ready soon.” Dad whirls around and pins his glare on my little brother, who is unsuccessfully trying to remain unnoticed behind his book. “Cedric! You’re next.”

“Dad,” I hear Ced whining while I dart into the house, grateful for the reprieve. The smell of coffee and the sound of my baby sister’s nattering drift from the kitchen as I dash upstairs. For Summer, this day is no different from any of the others she’s experienced in her six years. We’d like to maintain that illusion as long as we can.

I disappear into the bathroom and lock the door before stripping off my sweat-drenched clothes. My saint of a mother, bless her, has already anticipated my needs and filled the tub with hot water and—am I dreaming?—bubbles. God, I can’t remember the last time I had a bubble bath. It’s a huge luxury, because bubble baths serve absolutely no functional purpose whatsoever, except to be fucking amazing.

Today might be the last time I ever have a bubble bath.

I slip into the tub with a fervent determination to enjoy my soak. But now that the thought of the finality of it all has entered my head, I’m too tense to really luxuriate. I scrub myself clean from our rushed training session that morning. Dad wanted to prepare Ced and me as much as he possibly could in the last moments before the Reaping, even though he knows we’ll have more opportunities to practice at the training center in the Capitol. Personally, I think he was just using it as an excuse to squeeze in what bonding time he has left with us.

You know, if you consider whacking each other with fake weapons to be bonding time. Kind of is in our family.

I should have been reaped when I was twelve. I had expected it. Mom and Dad had expected it. The whole world had expected it. That was what always happened with the children of _a_ Victor, let alone _two,_ let alone two who emerged from the _same Games_. But a Seam girl had been chosen for the Seventieth Hunger Games instead. Now I’m sixteen, and my name has still yet to be selected by Effie Trinket.

My time, I am sure, has run out. Because Ced is twelve now. His name is only in the bowl once, one out of thousands—but how can the Capitol possibly resist the opportunity to pit two siblings, two Victors’ children, against one another? This is what they have been waiting for, and if both of us aren’t called today, then I have severely overestimated the Capitol’s capacity for cruelty.

Whatever happens today, Cedric is coming home. One way or another.

I dunk my head underwater to soak my hair. As I sit there, submerged, I fleetingly wonder...what if I just stay here? Force myself to stay under. Make it so an Abernathy family tragedy won’t have to play out in the Games—only in the privacy of our home. But...no. Although Summer is only six, there are only six years separating her and Ced. They would both be in the Reaping bowls at the same time, when she is twelve and he is eighteen. The Capitol will just have their fun then.

I will not force Summer to take my place. I will not force Cedric to have to sacrifice himself for Summer, years down the road. I sit back up, gasping for air. Just then, someone bangs on the door. “Ember, hurry up!” Cedric yells from the other side. “I want to shower before brunch!”

“Chill out, pipsqueak. I’m finishing up,” I bark back as I stand and drain the tub. Then I pat myself dry as much as possible with my favorite fluffy towel before wrapping it around myself and throwing the door open. “All yours, doofus.”

Cedric makes a face and slams the door shut. I grin to myself as I flit to my bedroom to change. Mom has laid out one of my good dresses, a soft lavender one that won’t make me stand out too much from the other kids in Twelve, who will all be adorned in varying shades of gray and brown.

At least, that’s the theory. In reality, I know the cameras will be pointed at me and my family more often than not, because we’re _the Abernathys._ And everyone wants a piece of the Abernathys. It’s a simple fact of life.

I put on the dress and run a brush through my tangled tresses. Hair looks presentable enough. I hurry downstairs, passing Dad on the stairwell as he clomps up to shower as well.

“You look nice, sweetheart,” Dad mutters. He claps his hand on my shoulder, looks as if he’s about to say more, but then changes his mind and continues his way up.

My mother has set out the spread on the table. I ask if she needs help, anyway. “No, thank you, Ember.” Mom kisses my head. “You can start eating. No point in waiting for your brother and father—God knows they’ll inhale everything in seconds.”

I sit beside Summer, who has a napkin that’s almost as big as she is tucked into her collar, undoubtedly to keep her pretty yellow dress stain-free. Summer garbles something around the heap of pancake she just shoveled into her mouth.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Summer,” Mom chides gently. “Chew, swallow, then speak.”

Summer looks disgruntled. I side-eye Mom to make sure she’s turned back to the stove before stuffing pancake into my own mouth and grinning grotesquely at my baby sister. Summer squeals in delight, but by the time Mom turns around, I’ve already gulped down and am demurely cutting my next piece. Mom looks suspicious but leaves us be, and I wink at Summer.

Dad and Cedric join us at last, and brunch is a deceptively merry affair. The usual teasing and mischief-making is tossed back and forth over the table, but everyone except Summer can see the tension in our family’s shoulders and eyes. This is probably the last pleasant family meal we’ll have.

After we finish eating and cleaning up, Dad and Ced tromp off to go over some survival books. Summer plays with her dolls on the floor while I sit still so Mom can fix my hair. She is thorough as she combs my inky black locks, then braids a few strands into a facsimile crown around my head. I can do ponytails and simple braids well enough, but I’ve always loved the feeling of my mother’s fingers in my hair—the touch in the entire world that I know best, that I would recognize anywhere. I coldly comfort myself with the reminder that, unlike most tributes, at least my mother will be with me until the very end.

“There,” Mom whispers. “You look lovely.”

“Wait!” Summer toddles to her feet. “You’re not done!” We watch her run to the kitchen counter, stretch, and swipe a bunch of slightly crushed white violets. Plucked not from my treasured garden, but from the wild. “Put these in Em’s hair!”

I lean down to rub my nose with Summer’s. “Thank you, Summer. They’re lovely! You’re so thoughtful.”

In the hallway, the phone rings. I hear Dad pick it up and conversed muffledly with whoever’s on the other end. Mom smiles as she tucks the flower stems into my braided coronet. Then she checks the time, and her face falls. “We need to go.”

Our family walks to the town square, resembling a funeral procession. We’re halfway there when Cedric tugs on my hand. “Is Ash showing up today?”

Oh, Ashton. The prodigal son, if there ever was one. And with good reason. Our eldest sibling and brother has lived in his own house in the Victors’ Village ever since he won the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games, when he was only twelve years old. And he is expressly forbidden from stepping foot into ours when he is or has recently been drunk or high.

My older brother, like so many Victors, did not escape his Games unscathed.

“He has to be there,” I say wryly. “The Peacekeepers will probably dig him out of his sty of a house if he tries to hole himself in.” Even if it weren’t required for all Victors to be present at the Reapings, the Capitol still loves to see the entire Abernathy clan all at once. It’s a rare treat, since Ash is usually doped up on something and unfit for public consumption, and Rain is—

I scowl and shake Lorraine Abernathy out of my head. Ash’s twin sister isn’t worthy of my thoughts.

“Ash?” Summer’s high voice pipes in. “Who’s that?”

Well, that just goes to show how frequently our brother has been clean in the last few years. Which is to say, not frequently at all.

“Your brother, sweetie,” Mom murmurs.

“I thought Ced was my brother.”

“Ash is your other brother. You have two.”

“Oh.” Summer wrinkles her nose. “Then why doesn’t he live with us?”

“He has his own house. The one down the street.”

“The scary house?”

I look back down at Cedric, who’s downcast. He’s old enough to remember a time when Ash wasn’t perpetually trashed. And he misses that big brother, not the frightening, half-mad, drunken addict. I squeeze his hand in commiseration.

We reach the square, and I can see the cameras all swiveling to ogle us. The Mockingbird, the Jabberjay, and their nest of Mockingjays—most of it, at least. Panem’s favorite family, even if the Capitolites do have to sometimes cover their eyes while a not-so-little Mockingjay pukes up vodka and absinthe.

Mom hugs Cedric and me, and Dad pats us both on the shoulder. Then we part ways: my parents for the stage, with Summer in tow, and Cedric and me to the pens that hold the sacrificial lambs. Cedric knows how it works, so I don’t worry about him while we check in. A prick of the finger and a blood sacrifice are no big deal. It’s what comes after that’s the worst.

My cousin Madge is already in the holding cell for the sixteen-year-old girls, as is our friend Katniss. Madge’s and my mom are twins, and Mrs. Everdeen might as well have been a third sister. I start toward them, but a Capitol reporter and her cameraman stop me first. “Hello, Ember! I’m Cornelia Applewhite, with the Capitol Report. How are you feeling today?”

Cedric and my parents are getting the same treatment. Mom will do most of the talking, while Dad will just look grumpy as usual, and Summer might get in a few cute remarks that’ll make the Capitol go _aww._ Cedric, I’m sure, will use plenty of big words so the reporter will go away as soon as possible and he can get back to the book he has tucked inside his jacket. I decide to go for honesty, with a touch of drollness. “Hot.”

Cornelia looks confused—she was expecting a “great,” or “excited,” or even a “fine”—but finally gets it. She titters, as if it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “It is very humid today, isn’t it? And, of course, I’m sure _you_ must always be rather warm, what with your name and all.” Ugh. Like I’ve never heard that one before. “Now, how are you feeling about the Reaping, dear?”

I shrug. “The same as usual.”

“And what’s the usual?”

Angry, bitter, terrified, take your pick. But I can’t say any of those things aloud. “I’m curious to see who the Tributes are for the inner Districts. Their volunteers never disappoint. Of course, you can’t count out the outer-lying Districts, either. You get a few surprises here and there.” I pause, then add lightly, “My parents, for example.”

“Oh, yes, your parents! Well, I see Marcus is taking care of them, but, well, I’m wondering about your perspective. Just as we’ve watched you and your brothers and sisters grow up, we’ve seen Haymitch and Maysilee Abernathy change over the years. How different do you think they are now, from when they were in the Games?”

I raise my eyebrows. “I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t alive then.”

Cornelia’s ostrich feathers tremble as she giggles again. “Obviously, dear! But surely you’ve seen the recordings or heard about their Games.”

The orange chicken really wasn’t going to let this go, was she? I’ll toss her a bone. “They’re as clever as ever, that’s for sure. Mom catches me every time I try to sneak an extra sweet, and Dad slips it right back to me under her nose.”

Cornelia practically guffaws, catching the attention of everyone around. I try not to flush in embarrassment. Honestly, it wasn’t that funny. I just want to fulfill her entertainment quota and escape. “Oh, you’re wonderful! Just as charming as your parents were in their day. And still are. Well, your mother, at least. You look a great deal like her, you know. If it weren’t for the hair, I’d say you were twins.”

I force a smile. “Mom already has a twin. One’s enough, I think. Now if you’ll excuse me, Ms. Applewhite, I should get going.” I extricate myself and hurry off before the orange chicken can reel me back in. Amusement radiates from Madge and Katniss as I finally join them. “Shut up.”

“We didn’t say anything,” Madge protests, lip twitching.

“You don’t need to,” I harrumph. “By the way, apparently I’ve replaced your mom as my mom’s twin.”

Madge places her hands on her hips. “But _I’m_ your twin.” Though cousins, Madge and I were born close enough to each other that we have joint birthday parties every year. And although not identical in appearance like our mothers, we still look similar enough—despite our hair colors—that we could be mistaken for sisters, if everyone didn’t know everyone in Twelve.

And if I weren’t part of a celebrity family.

I lean forward and tug on Madge’s plait, an action I know she hates. “Unfortunately.” I laugh as Madge bats my hand away, and I turn to Katniss. “How’s Prim?”

Katniss frowns. “Nervous.”

“She won’t get picked. She hasn’t gotten any tesserae, has she?”

“Of course not,” Katniss growls. “I would never let her.”

“Then she’s fine.” I sigh. “Besides, we all know who the tributes are going to be.”

Madge takes my hand. “Maybe it won’t be you. They haven’t picked you all these years. Why start now?”

I look around and instantly spot Cedric, who is indeed hunched over his book. Madge and Katniss follow my gaze. “He only has one, too,” Katniss says softly.

“It doesn’t matter. He was marked the moment he was born. We all were.” I’m a touch melodramatic, sure, but my whole life has been a big, fat soap opera. Almost literally, considering how often we’re on TV. I look them in the eye. “Cedric isn’t going to die.”

They’re silent. They know what I mean. If Cedric and I both go into the arena, only one of us can come back out. And I have already decided which of us it’s going to be.

Then the “festivities” begin. I tune out the same old video to observe my family. Cedric is still immersed in his book. He knows what to expect from today, too. If he wants to bury himself in the haven of whatever he’s reading for a few more moments, who am I to tear him away from that? Who is anyone to do so? Who is anyone to rip him away from his world of books and fantasy and knowledge and force him into harsh reality?

Mom sits primly onstage, looking every inch the perfect lady, even with Summer squirming on her lap. Her eyes are on the video, but not her mind, I can tell. I know Mom is still holding on to a fool’s hope that there is a way for us to be spared, that we won’t be reaped at all. Dad, on the other hand, never had such dreams and has been preparing for our deaths since before we were born. I’m sure that whatever Games strategy he has for Cedric and me now is the same plan he had come up with for Ash and Rain, back when he had feared that his twin children would be reaped together, back before Rain had betrayed us all.

I feel a sudden burst of anger, not at Rain (I’m always angry at Rain) but at my parents. Why have kids at all if they knew their children would die before their time? Why let us be born in the first place, so that we would die the death they should have died? But that anger is soon swept away by self-loathing for thinking such thoughts in the first place. _They love me. That is why I’m here today._ And the love of my parents is something to be cherished, not resented.

Then I spot Effie Trinket coming back to the microphone, and I freeze in fear. Already? So soon? I thought I had more time! “Now,” the escort trills, “who shall go first this year?” She turns to my parents. It’s Effie’s usual ploy to try to engage the Victorious couple in the Reaping. “Maysilee, Haymitch, which one of you would like to call it today?”

Usually, Dad sits back and lets Mom deal with Effie, but today, he speaks up before Mom can. “Boys.”

Effie looks surprised for a moment, having expected Mom to respond, before quickly beaming. “Thank you, Haymitch. There we have it, gentlemen first. And may the odds be ever in your favor.” She trots over to one of the giant glass Reaping bowls and sticks a pale hand inside.

I am willing to bet that every single slip of paper inside says “Cedric Abernathy.”

Effie selects one and slowly opens it up. “ _Cedric Abernathy!_ ”

My baby brother slowly looks up from the book he has his nose in. The cameras are already trained on him; they have been the entire time. He straightens up, but he still looks painfully tiny as he shuffles into the aisle and walks to his doom. I have prepared myself for this moment, but I still have to bite my fist to stop myself from screaming. On the stage, Mom and Dad look stony, determined not to break down when the entire world is watching them.

Cedric is small for his age, and he looks even shorter next to Effie in her towering heels. “Cedric, it’s so wonderful to see you again! You must be so excited, to be chosen for the Games in your first year!” Cedric stares blankly back at her. “Well, I’m sure you’re looking forward to following in your mother and father’s footsteps. And how are the proud parents?” Effie glances back at Haymitch and Maysilee but just as quickly looks back to the front, upon spying the glowers on their faces. “Now, onto the girls, shall we?”

I brace myself as the perfectly manicured hand digs into the other bowl. Well, this is it. I begin moving toward the aisle before Effie even reads the name.

“ _Primrose Everdeen!_ ”

The world stops. I stop. Murmurs start. My mind races. It’s not me. _It’s not me._

It’s Prim.

How did this happen? It was supposed to be me. I spin around and spy a small blond head bobbing slowly through the crowd, then back around to Katniss, who looks horrified. Our eyes meet. Katniss is going to volunteer. I know it.

Part of me wants to let her. It’s Katniss’s sister. Let Katniss go into the arena. Let Katniss go so I won’t have to sacrifice myself for Ced. But the greater part of me knows I can’t. I can’t expect Katniss to look after Cedric for me. I know she will, because we’re friends, and she likes Ced. But that’s my job. Just as Prim is Katniss’s sister, Cedric is my brother. I can’t volunteer for him, but I can still protect him.

Besides, with her hunting and survival skills, Katniss might be better prepared than almost anyone in Twelve for the Games, but I was born for them.

“I volunteer as tribute!” My voice rings clearly throughout the square. And then my face fills every screen. I see Peacekeepers hustling Prim back to the other twelve-year-olds, and others coming to escort me to the stage instead. Please. Total overkill. I stride forward, brushing them off as I pass by. I can’t bring herself to look at my parents as I climb the steps and join Cedric, who looks just as bewildered as I feel.

“Our first ever volunteer!” Effie gasps. “Well, Ember Abernathy, you couldn’t just let your brother have all the glory, could you?”

I entwine my fingers with Cedric’s. “I couldn’t let him go alone.”

“Oh, no, of course not. But how are you two going to work this out? There’s only one winner.” I see a flash of sorrow in her face.

“Easy,” I reply. “Cedric will come home.” _And I will not_ was the unspoken afterthought that everyone in Panem heard.

Effie is flustered. “I see,” she says, and I wonder if she really does. “Well, here they are! The tributes of District 12 for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games: Cedric and Ember Abernathy!” She claps.

No one else does.

I find Madge and Katniss in the crowd. My twin looks stricken. Katniss gazes back at me, and I think I see my friend mouth “thank you.” Then she raises her left hand, kisses her middle three fingers, and holds them up to me. To me and Cedric. Madge does the same. Then in another part of the crowd, Prim. Then Gale Hawthorne, and the Mellark boys, and Delly Cartwright, and Ripper, and Greasy Sae, and everyone in District 12.

I turn around. Mom and Dad are standing and saluting farewell, too. Mom’s eyes are watering, and Dad’s are cold as ice, until they meet mine. Then they soften, and I know that my parents both understand.

What I don’t know is why Dad’s eyes are burning with something that I’m tempted to call zeal, or excitement, but I know that can’t be it.

Peacekeepers rush us off the stage and into the Justice Building. I know the procedure, but it doesn’t hurt any less when Ced and I are separated. I sit on the couch in my room, waiting, wondering who will visit me. Mom and Dad won’t, obviously, since they’ll be coming with me and Ced to the Capitol. I’ve already said my goodbyes to most people, so—

The door opens. Madge enters. I fly to my feet, and we embrace. “I told you they weren’t going to pick you,” Madge says, laughing bitterly.

“So you did. You’re always right, Magpie.”

Madge wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t call me that. Firefly.”

I snort. “At least Magpie actually makes sense. I can’t remember where you even got Firefly from.”

“Embers burn, fires burn, ergo firefly,” Madge says simply.

“So you’re saying I burn fireflies?”

Madge shoves me lightly. “Shush. Pretend it’s logical.” Then she sighs and looks at me with the same blue eyes that I see in the mirror every day. “I’m going to miss you.”

I smile sadly. “What, no pep talk telling me that I have what it takes to come home?”

“Oh, you do. Of course you do. But I know that you’re going to take that ‘what it takes’ and use it for Cedric.” A tear runs down Madge’s cheek. “I wouldn’t expect any less from you.”

I press my palm against hers. “You’ll take care of my garden for me, won’t you? You know no one in my family can touch plants without killing them.”

“Of course.” Madge nods.

“And,” I add nonchalantly, “I’m sure if you ask politely, Gale Hawthorne will be glad to help you out once in a while.”

Madge shoves me again, less lightly. “Shut up! I never should have told you about him.” A sharp knock raps on the door. “I’d better go. You have a line.”

“I do?”

“You’re popular.” Madge smiles faintly. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yeah. I guess it is.” I watch Madge go. “Hey, Madge?”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry for kissing Gale when we were fourteen.”

She groans. “Ugh. You’re still not forgiven.”

“I love you, Magpie!”

Madge turns at the door, blinking furiously. “I love you, too, Firefly.” Then she’s gone.

I have no time to mourn, though, because Katniss and Prim come in immediately. Prim wraps her arms around my waist. “Thank you,” she sobs. “Thank you. I wish you didn’t have to volunteer, but…”

“Hey, better me than you,” I say, pseudo-lightheartedly. “Besides, someone’s got to watch over Ced.”

Prim sniffs and steps back. “I wish I had a present for you or something.”

“Just seeing you is more than good enough.”

Katniss pats Prim’s arm. “Prim, do you mind heading out first? I need to talk to Em alone.” Prim nods and retreats. When the door shuts, Katniss speaks again. “I want to thank you, too.”

“There’s no need,” I respond. “It was always supposed to have been me. Prim should never have been called.”

“Why didn’t you let me volunteer?”

I shrug heavily. “It wasn’t your job. It was mine.”

Thankfully, Katniss needs no further explanation than that. “Make sure Ced comes home, then. Make sure he wins, so that this isn’t all in vain.”

“That’s my only goal from this point forward.”

Katniss nods, hesitates, then comes in for a hug. I return it, and then my friend is gone, too.

Various friends from school come in and out, bringing and taking their tears with them. I’m starting to wonder if I should be crying by the time Delly Cartwright drags herself out. I’ve been dry-eyed the entire time. What should I be crying over? The guaranteed loss of my life? I’ve long since accepted it, and I’ll be losing it for the sake of Cedric. That’s more than a worthy cause.

When I finally rejoin him on the way to the train station, I take his hand—I’ve held so many hands today—and don’t let go, not in the car, not when we pass the hordes of cameramen on the platform. Not until we’re face to face with our parents once more.

And Ash.

I’ve been so distracted, I can’t even remember if my older brother was present at the Reaping. People are exempt from attending if they’re at death’s door, and Ash certainly looks as if he’s half-dead. Smells like it, too. His bloodshot eyes are dilated as they fall upon Cedric and me. “EmnCed!” he slurs. “Well, congrats, you’re the chosen ones. Howzz’t feel to be fucked?”

“Ashton!” Mom hisses, clamping her hands over Summer’s ears. “Your sister is in the room!”

“Oooh, so she is.” Ash squats so they’re eye-level. Summer shrinks back. “Wumph. You got big, Summy.” She hides her face against Mom’s leg. “Wut, don’ remember me? ‘m your big brother...Ashton Abernathyyyy!” He gesticulates wildly. “Youngest evah winner of th’ Hunnnngah Games!”

Dad grabs him by the collar and throws him in the direction of the door. “Get out of here.” He turns to one of the Capitol attendants. “Make sure he gets to his room and stays there until he sobers up.”

“Whoawhoawhoa, there, old man.” Ash stumbles back toward Dad. “Youuu can’t tell me whadda do. ‘sides, ‘m supposed to mentor. Gots to be here.”

“You’re not mentoring,” Dad snaps. “Your mother and I are.”

“But you mentored las’ year. And th’ year before. And before. And every year. S’not fair. Whenzzit gonna be my turn?”

“When you’re clean.”

Ash chortles. “Well, I guess tha’s never, then.” He starts to go, but pauses. Slowly, he turns back around to stare at Cedric and me again. “They’re gonna kill you. They’re all gonna go after you two first. Always happens.” He focuses on me. “You shouldn’a volunteered. Could’ve saved yourself. Could’ve lived. Now you’re dead. You’re fucking dead, and they’ll kill Ced soon as they’re done fucking your corpse—”

“OUT!” Dad bellows, and this time he drags Ash out the door.

“YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE ALL DEAD! YOU’RE DEAD, YOU’RE DEAD, YOU’RE DEAD—” The door shuts.

I shudder. Those of us remaining in the train car are silent, even Summer, who seems traumatized by the encounter. Just as we’ve all just about recomposed ourselves, the door opens again, and we jump.

“Well!” Effie says happily. “Did I miss anything?”


	2. Chapter 2

It turns out Dad threw Ash off the train. Literally. Mom was  _not_ happy when she found out, but Dad insists the train wasn’t moving that fast yet, and Ash has a thick skull, so what’s the problem?

Mom still hasn’t spoken to him.

I, for one, am feeling sour over what Ashton spat at me before Dad dragged him out, so I’m quite vindictively gleeful at the moment.

_They’ll kill Ced as soon as they’re done fucking your corpse._

I quell the rising sensation of nausea, begging my mind to not conjure up images of the hypothetical situation into which I’m sure Ash would have generously gone into further detail, if Dad hadn’t hauled him away. He was exaggerating. That wouldn’t happen. The hovercrafts would take my body before other tributes could do anything else to it.

A disturbing thought creeps into my head. What if they try to do “anything else” before I’m dead? It’s not as if anything is censored in the Hunger Games—except when tributes have to use the bathroom, because _nobody_ wants to see that, not even the Capitolites in all their depravity. It’s not as glamourous as killing or fucking. Fornicating tributes isn’t a common occurrence, but it’s happened before. Consensually and nonconsensually. Out of horniness, loneliness, force, desperation, anger. When it’s nonconsensual, the Districts respond as they do to everything Hunger Games-related: with disgust and outrage. Even the Capitol is uncomfortable with it.

It’s one thing to murder children and an entirely other thing to rape them.

I take a deep breath and shove my stream of thoughts away. It won’t happen. Not to me. I won’t let it. I’d rather die before I let Cedric, my parents, my friends, the world see it.

When I finally rejoin everyone on Earth, Effie is trying to get a talk about strategy going. “This is going to be a great year! Maysilee, Haymitch, you know everything about your tributes. You’ll know precisely what to do to bring home a win for Twelve.”

“I’d rather bring home my children, thank you,” Mom replies icily.

Effie titters nervously and moves on. “Well, let me see, let me see… There shouldn’t be any trouble getting sponsors. The world already knows and loves your children. You’ll have the entire Capitol eating out of your hand. Of course, that’s not to say presentation isn’t important, because it certainly is. Ooh! We might be able to do something like the Careers, now that—”

“No,” Dad snarls. “My children are not Careers.”

“But they’ve been training, haven’t they? They can—”

Dad slams his fist on the table. “They. Are. Not. Careers.”

There’s silence, then Effie stands. “I think...I shall leave you all to discuss amongst yourselves for a moment.” She totters away.

Mom rubs her temples, like Aunt Margaret does when she’s about to get one of her migraines. Thankfully, Mom doesn’t share her twin’s debilitating condition. “That could have gone a bit better, Haymitch.”

“She’s gone. I don’t see how it can get much better than that.” Mom shakes her head as Dad twists to stare at Cedric and me. “So this is the part where we usually ask the tributes what strengths they have, but like that flamingo said, we already know all your strengths _and_ weaknesses.” Dad props his chin on his hands and looks thoughtful.

Dad was right earlier, when he told Effie we weren’t Careers. We may have been training our entire lives for the Hunger Games, but not because we wanted to participate. It’s because we knew we would have to. That’s the difference between us and the bloodthirsty bastards in One, Two, and Four.

Neither Mom nor Dad is the best fighter. They won their Games based on cunning, resourcefulness, and each other. Neither of them ever had real combat training until the scant few days right before the Games. But over the years, when they started having children, they acquired enough skills to be proficient in a few types of weapons or styles of fighting, so they could pass them on to us.

 _Always be ready_ is Dad’s number one lesson. Number two is _the only weapon you can rely on is yourself._ No matter the arena, no matter the year, no matter the Gamemaker, the one thing you can count on to be in the Games is your own body. Even unarmed, you can get one over another tribute as long as you know what you’re doing. Of course, success depends on what that other tribute is capable of, as well as yourself. I could probably take on a fourteen-year-old from Six with a knife, but a Career, with or without a weapon, is another question entirely. Cedric and I also know our way around weapons that consistently show up in arenas—swords, spears, daggers, and the like. But neither of us is crazy, arrogant, or stupid enough to think we’d stand any chance in a bloodbath. We’re most likely going to have to depend on our survival skills, of which we certainly have plenty. Especially Ced, with his encyclopedic knowledge of everything. And his surprising talent at archery.

As if he read my mind, Dad finally speaks. “Your priority is not to kill. It is to survive.” Ced and I nod. “Only fight with the other tributes when you must.”

“Speaking of other tributes,” Mom chips in, adjusting a squirming Summer on her lap, “we need to figure out how you’ll interact with them. Your top priority is each other, but that doesn’t mean you can’t play nice with anyone else.”

“Are you suggesting an alliance?” I probe.

Mom and Dad do that thing where they communicate solely with their eyes. It’s weird. “You already have an alliance between the two of you,” Mom responds. “You have enough fighting and survival skills between you two that you don’t _need_ anyone else. But it can’t hurt to at least act like a decent human being. There’s no need to unnecessarily draw anyone’s wrath upon you.”

“And who knows what might happen in the arena?” Dad adds. “Be flexible, and if any tributes catch your eye, let us know. We’ll talk more.”

“Now, Effie had it right regarding sponsors,” Mom continues. “We’ll have no problem acquiring any, but we still want to keep those we already have and reel in as many more as possible. We can discuss private sessions and interviews in more depth later on, but for now, keep in mind that we want to keep up the image of devoted siblings who know what they’re doing and will do whatever is necessary to ensure one of them goes home.”

Done and done. “Is this the same image we want to project to the other tributes?” I ask.

“They’ll all know your motivations when they watch the Reapings, so there’s no point in trying anything else,” Dad points out. “But make sure they, particularly the Tributes, get the impression that you’re not a huge threat. We don’t want them coming after you early on.” He leans forward. “This is _very_ important. Avoid trouble as long as you possibly can in the arena.” There’s that queer light in Dad’s eyes again, that almost-zeal I saw during the Reaping. Before I can ask him what’s gotten him so wired up, Effie returns.

“Time for the recap of the Reapings!”

We reconvene at the couch in front of the big television screen. Summer has claimed Dad’s lap, so I rest my head on Mom’s shoulder while Ced squeezes between our parents. As always, the Reapings start with District 1. They must have an unfair proportion of pretty people there, because they always have at least one gorgeous tribute. The girl, Glimmer—and I thought “Ember” was bad enough—could give her mentor Cashmere a run for her money. And since she volunteered, I’m assuming she has the skills to back that arrogance up. Then again, you never know with the Ones and Twos. The boy isn’t bad to look at, either, and one look at his tall frame tells me he’s one to watch out for.

Two makes us all tense up. The girl, though petite, is daunting enough, what with the cold lack of feeling in her eyes.

The boy is terrifying.

District 2’s crowd is actually cheering his name as he surges toward the stage. _Cato! Cato!_ they’re chanting, as if he’s already won. He’s over six feet of solid muscle and chiseled lines. The girl in me appreciates these features, and his face. The tribute that I am is trembling.

Mom takes my hand and interlocks our fingers as we watch Cato pump his fist in the air, and the crowd screams. “And we have our odds-on favorite,” Dad mutters.

Four’s pickings are surprisingly weak this year. The boy looks like he’s Cedric’s size and age, and the girl, though older, seems anxious as she walks forward. Both were reaped. What’s going on? Does Four not have any Careers this year? The rest of the Reapings pass by in a blur, until we get to ours.

Ced blushes, as is his wont, when he realizes the cameras captured him reading when his name was called. But none of us scold him for it. Then, when Prim is summoned, after what felt like an eternity then but was really only a few seconds, I step up. I’ve always hated watching myself on TV, and this is no exception. At least I didn’t make a fool of myself, or cry or puke.

We have dinner after that, and then there’s no more talk of strategy, or even the Games. I think Mom and Dad are trying to make this the last “normal” evening for us. It doesn’t work for anyone except Summer, to whom none of us has quite explained the true meaning of the Hunger Games, but I appreciate the effort. Ced and I play along when our parents choose some board games. After all, we’ll have plenty of time to freak out at the Capitol.

The next day, we arrive, but I’m not particularly excited or astounded. The Capitol is no new setting for any of us Abernathys. We all journey here every year for the Games: Mom and Dad because they’re mentors, and my siblings and me because we’re the adorable children, and Ash because we might as well drag him along. Also, Ash needs to replenish his supply of Capitol-produced narcotics.

When I was little, I thought the annual trip was a vacation. My siblings and I were free to roam District 12’s living area in whatever Tribute building they’d constructed that year and ogle the colorful city from the windows, while Mom and Dad did their dirty work. In the evenings, we would be dressed up and go with our parents do the Opening Ceremonies, the Interviews, and other public events. It wasn’t until I was six, when Ash was reaped and Rain abandoned us, that I realized Mom and Dad only took us because they had to. The Capitol wanted to see the Abernathys’ nest of Mockingjays, and what the Capitol wants, the Capitol gets.

I was disillusioned long ago by my erstwhile wonderland. Now I dread more than ever the city and its inhabitants. All but one.

Cinna nods as I finish dressing in a plain black leotard. The fabric is high quality and well-made, but I fail to see what is so spectacular about it. Cinna is better than this. “Trust me, you’ll stun everyone,” he assures me. “However, I do trust that the girl named after fire isn’t afraid of her namesake?”

I wonder if I should be worried. “I don’t know, are you afraid of cinnamon?”

He chuckles. “I’m not named after cinnamon.”

“I know. I’m not named after fire, either.” I pluck an already peeled orange from the bowl on the table and pop a slice into my mouth. Alright, so perhaps the Capitol has one more redeeming quality besides Cinna, and that’s fresh citrus. “So if I’m fire, then what’s Cedric? And he’s not named after cedar,” I add.

“No, trees are Seven’s territory. He’ll get the same treatment you’re getting.”

I eye Cinna suspiciously. “You’re not pulling my leg, are you? You’re not actually secretly setting us up for sexy coal miners? Because my parents were stuck with that, and they looked awful.”

“That’s not what I have in mind, but it can be arranged if you wish.”

I snicker. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

Cinna clasps his hands behind his back. “Joking aside, Ember, how are you really?”

I quiet. “I don’t know.” Even if I did, I wouldn’t say, because I know there are microphones all over the room.

He knows, too. He changes the subject. “Now, moving on. I don’t want to give too much away about your Interview outfit, but I just want to make sure—your cousin, Madge, she calls you...Firefly?”

“Yes. Why?”

Cinna smiles blithely. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

I groan, then pout. “You can’t tease me like this, Cinna. I’m dying to know what you’re plotting!”

“You’ll know Part One soon enough.” He checks his watch. “Very soon. We should get going.”

I watch the Opening Ceremonies every year, in person, but I’ve never been up close to a real horse before. Twelve’s horses seem gentle enough, and I even pet one of them on the nose. “Aren’t they beautiful, Ced?” When my brother doesn’t answer, I twist around to look at him. “Ced!”

He jumps, almost dropping his book. “What? What’s going on?”

“Now, Ced? Really?”

“I was in the middle of a chapter,” he says defensively. “I couldn’t just put it down.”

I can’t help but grin as I chuck him under the chin. “Just make sure you don’t read during the actual Ceremony, okay?”

“Fine,” he grumbles.

District 1’s chariot lurches forward. Cinna and Portia hurry over. “Are you ready?” Cinna asks, raising what looks an awful lot like a torch.

“Maybe,” I say slowly. Even Cedric looks up from his book, partly curious, partly alarmed.

“Good. Hop on.” They stop onto the chariot. Cinna and Portia lean forward.

“Oh my God!” I yelp, and everyone in the vicinity gapes. We’re on fire, but we can’t _really_ be because we’re not burning to death. I would know if I was. So would everyone else, once I began screaming in agony. “Cinna, what is this?”

“Your outfit,” he says, just a bit smugly. “Do you like it?”

I tentatively touch one of the flames. It feels like air. Like nothing. Maybe a little tickle. But it looks so real. I feel like a goddess.

No, scratch that. I _am_ a goddess.

“Yes,” I breathe.

“Hold on to each other,” Cinna advises, and Cedric grabs my hand just as our chariot surges forward.

I am expecting cheers, because the Capitol already knows and loves us. I am not expecting the stunned silence (as promised by Cinna) and the ensuing cacophony of screams of shock, delight, confusion, and admiration. The sound pounds my eardrums, and my heart hammers as flowers rain down upon us. A great deal of them are white violets, and I wonder if people noticed the ones that had been in my hair earlier that day. I catch all of the violets, smiling beatifically, just as I’ve practiced every day of my life. Cedric is doing okay, beaming bashfully at the cameras, though I can tell he’s uncomfortable. We’re still holding hands, and Cedric, noticing this, smiles at me before raising them.

I feel high off the atmosphere by the time we stop in front of President Snow’s mansion. If this is what Ash experiences every time he smokes, snorts, or injects something, I can _almost_ understand why he does it. I nearly forget why I’m here in the first place, until I catch sight of the president.

“Snow” is a taboo word in the Abernathy household, unless one is speaking about the precipitation kind. I know our house is bugged, and it seriously creeps me out, but I’ve managed to live with it my entire life. Everyone in our family twelve and older knows that nothing kind can be said about Snow, so it’s best not to speak of him at all.

That is, until we go beyond the fence to train in the woods. Then it’s free game.

Snow cares nothing for the feelings of my family, only for what we can offer to him and the Capitol. Entertainment, mostly, in the form of feature stories and TV clips about our everyday lives. And I know that at one point, he wanted my parents, in their younger days, to be a part of his Victors’ prostitution ring, despite their being “star-crossed lovers,” but then changed his mind and told them to become baby-making machines instead. As whores, Haymitch and Maysilee would have pleased a few people. As parents, they pleased and please the entire Capitol.

As much as Snow loves his blood money, he knows the importance of keeping the Capitolites content.

I’m startled when the chariot moves again. The Ceremonies are over, or they’re about to be. We tributes return to the stables, where our mentors are waiting. Mom is scolding Cinna good-naturedly. “If I really thought you were endangering my children…”

“I wouldn’t dare to even think of it,” he replies.

Our cloaks of fire are extinguished, and I go to join Dad, who’s talking with Chaff. The one-handed man spots me coming and grins broadly. “Ember Abernathy! Look at you. Haymitch, where’ve you been hiding her?”

“District 12,” Dad deadpans.

“Hello, Chaff.” I extend my hand to shake. Chaff reaches for it and pulls me in, giving me a bear hug.

“I remember when you could still fit in the palm of my only hand.”

I roll my eyes, corner of my mouth quirking upward. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You were half that size.” Chaff slaps his leg. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Chaff.” I peer around, and my gaze lands on Eleven’s tributes. One is a large, hulking boy whom I would’ve thought a Career if I didn’t know any better. The other is a sprite of a girl who’s even smaller than Prim. I feel a pang in my chest. If Cedric is to go home, this child will have to die.

Chaff sees what, or whom, I’m looking at. He and Haymitch exchange a glance, and Dad nods. “Wanna meet my tributes this year, Em?” Chaff asks.

I blink at the unexpected offer. “Meet your...um, okay. Uh, Cedric as well?”

“Sure thing. Hey, Cedric Abernathy!” Chaff hollers. “Get over here!” When my brother skitters over, Chaff gestures for his tributes to approach. “Em, Ced, this here is Thresh and Rue, Thresh, Rue, I’d like you to meet Ember and Cedric Abernathy.”

Rue looks decidedly impressed. Thresh looks decidedly not. “It’s nice to meet you,” Rue tells us, then to me, “You volunteered for that blond girl, didn’t you?”

“I did,” I confirm

“Did you mean what you said when your escort asked you why?”

I look down at Cedric, who scuffs his shoes. “Yes. Of course.” Thresh looks intrigued now, but not enough to speak.

Rue sighs and tells Cedric, “I wish I had a big sister like yours. I’m the eldest in my family.”

Cedric blushes. “Ah...she’s not that great.”

I pinch him him. “Ungrateful brat,” I say jestingly, before returning my attention to Rue. “How many siblings do you have?”

“Five.”

“Five?” I repeat eyes wide. I shouldn’t be so stunned, since my family is almost as large, but we can afford to feed so many mouths. I’m pretty sure Rue’s family can’t. That must mean, assuming both her parents are alive, she must’ve taken eight tesserae, and that’s only if she doesn’t have any extended family. Rue’s name was in the Reaping bowl nine times, four more than me. And that’s only in her first year. If Rue hadn’t been reaped this year, then by the time she turned eighteen, if only she of all her siblings took tesserae, she would’ve had her name on _sixty-three_ slips. Significantly more than even someone like Gale, who has too many tesserae himself.

But such hypothetical situations will never come to pass, because Rue was chosen today. Nobody gets reaped twice.

“What are their names?” I hear Cedric ask.

“Clary, Basil, Holly, Myrtle, and Dill,” Rue rattles off. “Dill’s the new baby. He was just born a month ago.”

I nudge Cedric. “I remember when Summer was born. You hated her because it meant you weren’t the youngest anymore.”

“I did not!”

“I caught you trying to put her in the trashcan. But you were still a baby yourself so you couldn’t even lift her.”

Cedric is tomato red. “I’m not—was not!”

I laugh and take mercy on him. Mustering my courage, I meet Thresh’s gaze. “Do you have any siblings, Thresh?”

He’s silent. Is he giving me the silent treatment? No, as it turns out, because he says, “One older sister. Honey.”

“What about you and Cedric, Ember?” Rue queries. “It’s you two, Summer—” she nods at their baby sister, who’s holding Mom’s hand “—and...an older brother? He won the Games, didn’t he?”

“Ash, and yes, he won the Sixty-Fourth,” I reply.

“And Ash has a twin, Rain,” Ced chips in.

“Really?” Rue’s brow furrows. “I don’t think I’ve seen her with you guys on TV before.”

“She’s not around very often,” I say flatly.

Rue senses this is a sore subject and wisely backs off. “So you’re the middle child, Ember?”

“Yup.” Sometimes it feels more like I’m the eldest, though, what with Rain out of the picture and Ash doing God knows what. It’s as if Mom and Dad messed up with the first two kids so they’re trying again with the second batch.

I feel like a terrible person for that thought.

Meanwhile, Cedric has turned around to beseech Dad, “Can I go say hi to Beetee? I haven’t seen him in forever.” Beetee, a District 3 Victor, is Cedric’s idol. Cedric devours all the information he can get on Beetee’s latest innovations,  and ever since he met and befriended the man a few years ago, he’s been nigh intolerable whenever Beetee Latier’s name comes up. The Victor, for his part, seems amused and flattered that he has such an avid fan.

Dad eyes the throng of other tributes in between them and the District 3 cluster. He’s probably imagining someone accidentally stepping on Cedric. “I’ll go with him,” I offer.

This makes Dad relent. “Alright, but only for five minutes. Then I want you back here.”

“Ten,” Ced argues.

“Four.”

“Dad, that’s not how it works!”

“Do you want to go down to three?”

Ced huffs and gives me no warning before he takes off at a run, undoubtedly to maximize his nerd-out time with Beetee. I roll my eyes and smile at Rue. “And there’s Ced in a nutshell. I’ll see you tomorrow at Training?”

“Definitely,” Rue agrees fervently.

“How about you, Thresh?”

He shrugs. Good enough. I wave goodbye to Chaff and jog after Cedric. I weave past cowboys and paper trees and God-knows-what-else, and I’m almost to the District 3 chariot when someone grabs me around the waist and pulls me into a well-muscled body. “My, my, Ember Abernathy, it’s been much too long,” Finnick Odair purrs into my ear.

I groan and stamp on his foot to make him let go. “Not long enough, in my opinion.” Ever since I turned fourteen and developed boobs, the District 4 Victor has become an incorrigible flirt. I know he doesn’t really mean it, least of which because I’m a bit too young for his tastes, but it’s still annoying as hell.

“Ouch. That hurts. Right here. Feel it?” Finnick seizes my hand and presses it to his chest. “That’s my heart breaking.”

“I’ll send flowers.” I wriggle away, turn to Finnick’s tributes (the boy is just as small as Ced and Rue and now _my_ heart is breaking), and say, “I’m so sorry this is what you’re stuck with. You have my deepest sympathies.”

“I like orchids!” Finnick calls after me as I take the last few steps to stand beside Cedric, who is, as expected, in geek heaven.

“—and that’s all you need in order to spot it,” Beetee finishes, then smiles at me. “Hello, Ember. How are you?”

“I’ve been better, I’ve been worse. I hope Ced hasn’t been bothering you overly much.”

The bespectacled Victor chuckles. “Ced? Bother me? Never.” He ruffles my brother’s hair. Seeing the camaraderie between the two of them makes me really wish they could see each other more often, but alas, travel between the Districts is heavily restricted. That our little clan is granted such free license to be shuttled between Twelve and the Capitol so frequently is an anomaly.

Then again, our constant travels are akin to Finnick’s. The Capitol wants us in the Capitol, so we go. If we had a choice, we would stay in Twelve forever.

Cedric launches into another tangent, about force fields of all things. Knowing how my parents won their games, I should listen, but my brain is more suited for processing books, not physics, so I let my attention wander. My skin prickles, and I slowly shift my gaze to the side to see what’s making my skin crawl.

Blue meets blue. My breath catches. The ice chips in the boy’s eyes are burning, but with what, I don’t know. It takes me a moment to collect myself and comprehend whom I’m looking at: the male tribute from District 2. I quickly run through everything I remember about him. Cato, a volunteer, obviously a Career, and based just on what I saw of him at his Reaping, absolutely vicious.

I am now certain that what his eyes are burning with is a thirst for my blood. I am, after all, a prime target, being the daughter of not one but two Victors. He’s probably imagining all the glory he’ll get if he kills me.

Well, I’ll have to show him that he won’t find me easy prey. I take my time sweeping my gaze up and down his body, not caring if he catches me—honestly, I _want_ him to catch me. Despite my choice of hair accessory yesterday, I am no shrinking violet. And when I’m done surveying him, I just give him one last hard stare before turning my back on him. It’ll take a lot more than a few glares to frighten me.


	3. Chapter 3

Training starts without a hitch. All the potential threats—namely the careers—lumber off towards the weapons stations, which suits me fine. I sweep my gaze across the training center, wondering where we should begin. I am determined to ignore the gaggle of Gamemakers supervising us from their balcony. “Ced, any suggestions for starters?”

He scratches his nose as he thinks, undoubtedly searching his mental library for gaps. “Shelter? We’re not very great at that.”

“Shelter it is.”

We learn how to construct, protect, and reinforce makeshift shelters in a variety of terrains. Igloos. Tree-houses. Lean-tos. Caves. The station monitor is keen to stress that no matter where we are, we always ensure there is sufficient oxygen flow. The last thing we want is to get asphyxiated in our sleep. I can see Ced filing everything away in his head as we move on to snare-setting. Katniss and Gale have taught us the basics at home, but since we don’t depend on wild meat for survival, we’re not experts like them. I soon realize that snares can be more useful than for just catching food, though; they can catch other tributes as well. I’m working on creating a trap large enough to bag a Career when Cedric nudges my shoulder.

“Rue is watching us.”

I look back and see that the young girl is indeed loitering nearby. I catch her eye and smile. This seems to give her the confidence to come over. “Hey, Rue. Do you want to join us?”

“Can I?” she asks hopefully. My heart breaks a little more.

“Yeah. We’re almost finished here, but we can work some more if you want to learn how to make snares. Or do you want to move on to a different station? We already picked a station each, so it’s your turn to choose.”

“I’d like to try.”

I turn to Cedric. “Ced, show Rue the snare you were just working on. You’re a lot better at it than I am.”

He splutters wordlessly but acquiesces. I watch thoughtfully as he stammers through the instructions, redder than the strawberries Madge and I gorge on in the summer. Interesting. My baby brother is growing up. I grin to myself and continue the progress on my own trap.

When we’re done, Rue asks us if we’re any good at climbing trees. I’ve spent countless afternoons in the woods, perched in branches with Madge and Katniss, throwing pinecones at an unsuspecting Gale. It’s indoorsy Cedric who could use serious improvement.

Rue makes climbing look as easy as breathing. She flits up the fake trunk so quickly, I’m afraid to blink lest I miss her completely. “How are you so good at that?” I call up to her.

“I work in the orchards at home. I’m always at the tops of the trees, since I’m small.”

She works already? Kids in Twelve don’t head to work until they’re eighteen. “Alright, well, I guess I’ll give it a shot.” I clamber up the fake tree next to hers, less gracefully and speedily, but I think it’s a decent effort. “Okay, Ced, your turn!”

“I think I’ll pass.”

I shoot him a look. “Ced…” _Climbing a tree could save your life, moron,_ I try to tell him with my eyes.

He must understand at least part of my message, because he sighs and moves to grip the lowest branch. Cedric doesn’t so much climb as shuffle up the tree, hugging the trunk too tightly and glancing back down too often. If we were being chased by Careers, he’d have gotten an axe in his back by now. But I say nothing; I don’t want to discourage him.

Ced reaches out for the next branch, but he overbalances, loses his grip, and falls. Though the padded mat below cushions his fall, it doesn’t stop me from leaping down and rushing to make sure he’s all right. “Ced? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” He looks embarrassed, and his face turns a deeper shade of red when he realizes there’s laughter. And he’s the cause of it. I search for the source and quickly land on the Careers, who are snickering at my brother’s fall.

I’m reminded of all the times I rescued Cedric from bullies at school. Jerks who tore books from his hands and ripped out the pages. Shoved him into the fence and into puddles. Taunted him for being small, weak, slow.

I see red.

Before I can stop to think about what I’m doing, I march over. They see me coming, and their snickers have faded by the time I plant myself in front of them and cross my arms.

“Is there a problem?” the boy from One queries with false concern.

I jab his chest, and he almost jumps in surprise. “Yes. You. I’ll thank you very much if you and your friends would mind your own business and stop mocking someone who’s a hundred times better than you all combined.”

“Please,” the girl from Two, Clove, scoffs. “That runt won’t last a day in the arena.”

“He has more intelligence in his little finger than you do in your entire body.”

“Then I’ll make sure to cut off that body part before I start on the rest of him.”

“Not if I get to you first,” I say lowly.

Clove scowls. “Is that a threat, Twelve?”

I smile. “Yes.”

A hand lands on my shoulder. “Now, now, ladies,” someone drawls, and I have to crane my neck to look up at an uncomfortably close Cato. I don’t like it. “Let’s play nice.”

I shrug off his hand. I’ve said my piece, and I’ll take an out when I see it. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” I turn and leave, fully expecting Cato to shout a last-minute barb or taunt at my back.

He doesn’t.

“Let’s keep practicing,” I tell Cedric and Rue when I get back to the tree-climbing station. They stare at me in awe before scrambling to do as I say.

By lunchtime, Cedric has managed to climb a decent-sized tree in under five minutes. I consider it a success, and we break. The Careers have their own little club, so I make sure we sit at the table farthest from them, and I take the seat that will allow me to turn my back on them. I have no desire to watch them massacre their food.

Cedric loads his plate with carbs and meat. He is so Dad’s son. I shovel a heap of glazed carrots on top of his fare, and he pouts. “Ember, you’re not Mom,” he whines.

“Yeah, and you should consider yourself lucky I’m not. She’d make you eat twice that amount of veggies. Look, Rue has a nicely balanced plate.”

Rue is staring at something—or someone—behind me. I spin around in my seat. It’s a small boy with a head full of curls and a face smattered with freckles. I think I recognize him. “Hi. You’re one of Finnick’s, aren’t you?”

He nods. “I’m Ardi.” The boy fidgets. “Can I sit with you?”

“Of course. We have plenty of room.”

Ardi brightens, and he sits between me and Rue. Not long after that, the gangly pair from Three approaches. I’m starting to think we should add another table.

“So...is there a reason this table is so popular today?” I ask as we dig in.

The girl from Three, Marilou, loudly whispers, “You stood up to the Careers!”

I furrow my brow. “I just told them to stop laughing at Ced.”

“That’s standing up to them,” the boy, Thierry, tells me.

I snort. “Is that so? In that case, they were long overdue for a good telling-off. They’ve clearly never been disciplined a day in their lives.” Actually, that’s probably a lie. From what I’ve heard, the Career training academies are military-like. They ought to have known nothing but discipline growing up. I change the subject. “So your mentor is Beetee.” I elbow my brother. “Ced here must be dying from envy. What do you think of him?”

“He’s the smartest man I’ve ever met,” Thierry gushes. “And I know a lot of smart guys. Beetee is a genius! I mean, the way he won his Games? That was just _sick._ ”

If Cedric’s skin could turn green, it totally would.

“I know Three’s specialty is technology, and everybody has a further specialization within that category. What are yours?” I query.

“Military technology,” Thierry replies.

“Computer programming,” Marilou adds.

Thierry nods at her. “Marilou is great. She won a prize last year for creating the best program in our school. She beat all the older students.” Marilou blushes and stammers about how it wasn’t really that big a deal.

“How old are you?” I wonder. Marilou is taller than me by several inches, and I’m definitely not short, but her face is just as babyish as Ced’s or Rue’s or Ardi’s.

“Thirteen.”

“So you were twelve when you won that contest?” She nods. I turn to Ced. “Wow, Ced, when are you going to make an award-winning program? You gotta catch up.”

“Shut up.” He throws a carrot at me. I bat it away easily, laughing.

Rue decides to take the initiative next. “What about you, Ardi? What do you do in Four?”

The freckled child shrugs. “Same as everybody else. I work on my family’s fishing boat.”

“Everyone in Four has a boat?” I ask. Boats are expensive in Twelve.

“Well, yeah. How else do you make a living? Some boats, if they’re well-made, can be passed down from generation to generation.” Ardi’s chest puffs in pride. “My grandfather made our boat, and it’s still as perfect as the day he finished building it. Her name is _Queen Coral._ ” He glances at me. “So, uh, you know Finnick, Ember?”

I nod, tearing a warm roll of bread in half.

“How?”

“Ced, our baby sister, and I come to the Capitol every year with our parents, since they always mentor in the Games. Finnick also comes here very often. It was inevitable that we met.” Not really. My parents and him run in different circles, and the city is a big place. But I know that at some point Finnick intentionally sought Mom and Dad out. I’m not sure why, and I’ve never been able to get a straight answer out of him.

“Oh. I see. Are you dating him?”

I choke on my bread. “What?” I manage to force out after having a coughing fit.

Ardi looks innocent. “I was just wondering, because Una—my District partner—likes him and if you’re dating him, then she’ll probably try to go after you.”

Cedric and I both break out into peals of laughter. “Please tell Una that she has nothing to worry about,” I finally gasp.

“Yeah. Finnick isn’t interested in snots like her,” Cedric chimes in.

I shove his shoulder. “He wishes I would give him the time of day.”

“You think he’s hot.”

“Yes, and I also think he’s dumb as a rock.” That’s not true. I know Finnick’s smart. He had to be to win his Games. It’s still possible for a person to be clever and stupid at the same time, though. But, yes, he is hot. I’d have to be blind to deny it. Doesn’t mean I would date him for that alone. Besides, I already get more than enough attention for being an Abernathy. No need to add to that by becoming Finnick’s latest conquest in his string of paramours.

Lunch ends, and when Ced and I return to the training room, we have a much bigger party than what we started with. I’m starting to wonder if I’m being too friendly. My chances of getting Ced home are much lower if we end up with a posse of kids tagging along. But I’ve already grown uncomfortably attached to these kids, and the idea of snubbing them now, after we had such an enjoyable meal together, rankles me.

Maybe I can get something out of this. “What are you guys good at? Besides tree-climbing,” I add pointedly at Rue, who beams.

“Fishing,” Ardi volunteers. Alright. I can work with that. Knowing how to fish can be useful in a number of environments. I’m familiar with the basics, but it can’t hurt to learn more from an expert like Ardi.

“Do you mind helping the rest of us out with that?”

He agrees eagerly. As we walk to the station, I wonder if he’s doing this out of genuine kindness, or because he has his own plan on how to make the most out of our temporary friendship, or, most likely, to buy our company so he can stave off loneliness in these last few days.

Cedric seems to be handling everything well so far, all things considered. I think that may be because our situation hasn’t quite sunk in all the way yet. He knows our parents and Summer are waiting for us when we finish training, and I’ve been by his side all day. If I were in his place and my fellow tribute was, I don’t know, Mom, or Dad, or pre-addiction Ash, then the Games wouldn’t seem all that real to me, either. Yet.

Later, it turns out that after a few initial _blazing_ mishaps, Thierry is pretty damn good at starting fires, and he graciously offers to give us a few tips. Ced picks it up quickly, and he and Thierry get into a science-y talk about fire and oxygen and friction and other things that I end up tuning out while working on my own campfire.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. My immediate suspicion is the Careers, but they’re busy showing off like the peacocks they are and not paying us the least attention. Frowning, I turn my gaze upward. Most of the Gamemakers are observing the Careers, with self-satisfied looks on their faces, as if they’re responsible for making them into killing machines. But one of them is staring straight at me.

“Rain,” I hiss under my breath.

Rue hears me. “What did you say, Ember? It’s raining?”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “It’s nothing.”

But she’s already noticed. “Who is that watching you?”

“A good-for-nothing Gamemaker,” I mutter.

“Do you know her?”

I want to snap at Rue to back off, but I can’t bring myself to yell at the sweet girl. “Sadly, I do.”

“How?”

I rub my eyes wearily. “She’s my sister.” If the other tributes knew that Ced and I were related to a Gamemaker, they’d either be kissing up to us or targeting us, even more than they already are. But I don’t see Rue doing either, and I doubt she’ll spill to anybody else.

“Your sister is a Gamemaker?” Rue asks in disbelief. “How?”

“She’s very smart and creative,” I say coolly. “The Capitol noticed her when she was younger, and they enrolled her in a prestigious school here when she was twelve. She’s been living here ever since.” I vividly remember that fateful day ten years ago, when I was screaming and begging Rain not to go, but she just turned her back on me and left without looking back. Back then, Mom and Dad weren’t quite sure what the Capitol wanted her for. It wasn’t until she came back to visit one summer when she was about my age now that we found out they were training her to be a Gamemaker.

I’ve never been able to forgive her. Our parents were in the Hunger Games. Our brother, her _twin,_ was in the Hunger Games. The Districts suffer from the Games every year. And she’s chosen to be a part of them? She doesn’t deserve to be called an Abernathy. I honest to God cannot wait for her to marry her stupid Capitolite boyfriend so that she can have his surname instead. Then she won’t be Lorraine Abernathy any longer, and people won’t ask me so often why the fuck my own sister is a Gamemaker.

Speak of the devil. Said Capitolite boyfriend wanders over to where Rain is leaning on the balcony and drapes his arm around her. He asks her something, she responds, and then he’s looking at me two with unnervingly blue eyes, bluer than mine or my mother’s. I focus on his beard instead. It’s a weird beard. What the hell is it supposed to resemble? If this is the kind of man Rain is interested in...well.

A very nasty part of me wonders if Rain began sleeping with Seneca Crane before or after she decided to be a Gamemaker.

Cedric finally notices that something is off. “What is it, Em?”

“Our sister is spectating,” I reply flatly.

It takes him a moment to realize who exactly I’m talking about. After all, Rain abandoned us when he was two, and he’s only ever seen her for a few days each year, up until he was eight. Cedric twists to look at Rain, who espies him and timidly raises a hand.

I put _my_ hand on his shoulder and turn him right back around. “Focus. Back to work.” I refuse to look anywhere near the balcony again for the rest of the day.

We eat dinner that night with Mom, Dad, Cinna, Portia, and Effie. I’m not hungry, but I force myself to eat, knowing that the food will be thrown out if we don’t finish it.

“Anything happen at training today?” Mom asks.

“I learned how to make a bonfire,” I respond. It’s the safest thing to say.

Unfortunately, Cedric blabs. About everything. “I learned so much today! We worked on shelters and snares, and then Rue, the girl from Eleven, taught me how to climb a tree, but I sucked at first and I fell, and the Careers were laughing so Ember told them off and got them to shut up, and at lunch we sat with her and Thierry and Ardi and Marilou, and then afterwards Ardi taught us how to fish, and Thierry worked on fires with us, and—oh! We saw Rain today.” He sits back, satisfied.

Mom and Dad stare at him, then at me, And they say, at the same time:

“You told off the Careers?”

“You’re working with that many tributes?”

I shoot a death glare at Ced. “A, I just told them to stop laughing at Ced. And B, we only sat with a few other kids at lunch and got them to teach us some skills.”

“That sounds very mercenary,” Dad drawls. “I approve. But it’s not like you at all, Em. C’mon, what really happened?”

“I think we’re all friends now,” Cedric says helpfully.

The silence is damning. “Friends,” Dad repeats. “Great. Just what we need. Attachment to other tributes right before you go into the Games.”

“We’re not friends,” I sneer.

“Oh, really?” Dad doesn’t believe me. “So, ah, you have no desire at all to be allies with any of these kids? If you meet, who was it, Rue? If you meet Rue in the Games, you won’t have a problem killing her? If you three are the last ones standing, you’ll do what it takes for one of you to win?”

“I—Dad! Of course I don’t want to kill her! But that doesn’t mean we’re friends or allies. It means that I’m _human,_ for not wanting to mur—”

“Enough.” Dad cuts me off sharply, and I realize I almost said too much. May have said too much already. The place is bugged, after all. “You know, Em, I really shouldn’t be as surprised as I am now about what you’ve done today. You always have had a bleeding heart. I just didn’t realize it was enough to make you forget about your brother or yourself.”

“I haven’t forgotten!”

“It sure seems like it!” Dad barks back. “Making nice with the other tributes? You really think they’re cozying up to you because they _like_ you? They’re using you, and you’re deluding yourself if you think otherwise.”

My chair screeches as I push back. “I’m full.”

“We’re not done here, Ember.”

“Oh, yes, we are,” I snarl before barging out of the apartment. I can either go up or down. Down puts me at too high a risk of encountering other people, so I take the stairs to the roof. There’s usually a rooftop garden and pool and courtyard and such at the Tribute Centers. I’m not sure why, since tributes and mentors rarely use them. Then again, the Capitol is all about wasteful spending, so it’s not like it’s out of character for them.

I lean over the guardrail at the edge and glower at the city. Stupid Capitol. Stupid Capitolites. Stupid Games. Stupid Panem. I hate it all. Twisting everything good so that I can’t even be nice to kids without questioning their and my own motives.

Stupid Dad.

“Ember?”

I exhale. “Hey, Cinna.”

He moves to stand beside me, resting his hands on the same rail. “I’m sorry your father upset you.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

He, too, gazes out at the city. “You know, I see nothing wrong with showing kindness, even—no, especially to other tributes.”

“Really? Dad seems to think I’m nuts,” I say bitterly. “It’s not like I was _trying_ to be friendly! It just...happened. They seemed lonely, and I didn’t think there was anything wrong with sitting at the same table. Everything just happened from there.”

Cinna smiles. “And that is what is so special about you, Ember Abernathy.”

“Hm?”

“You demonstrate compassion for others, even at the hardest of times. Your love for your brother, your family, shines through no matter the circumstances. You are courageous in big and small circumstances. You show some of the best qualities available to humankind.”

I gape at him. “Are you sure we’re still talking about me?” Compassionate? Courageous? I’m an overly bitter teenager who covers up my despondence with sarcasm and teasing.

Cinna chuckles and pats my arm. “Ember, do you know why I’m the stylist for Twelve?”

“Because you’re the newbie?”

“Because of you.” He looks me in the eye. “Not just because I knew you before the Games. Not just because we’re friends. Not just because I like you. You, my dear, are inspirational, and not only in an artistic sense.”

“I think we’re talking about two entirely different people, Cinna. The most I’ve done is volunteer so I can bring Cedric home.”

“And you don’t think that’s inspirational? Do you see any other District citizens volunteering so they can protect their loved ones? Ember, you are the only tribute in the entire history of the Hunger Games who is going into the arena with one hundred percent certainty that she is not coming back out. No, don’t talk about how other tributes have known their odds of surviving are close to zero. Those other tributes may be aware of the odds, but they hope despite them that they can make it. They cling to that infinitesimally small possibility of living.”

“Are you saying I’m hopeless?”

“Not at all, far from it. You are hopeful. Not for yourself, but for your brother. You’re pinning all your hopes on his survival. You could have not volunteered and guaranteed your safety. Instead, you are sacrificing your life so that you can increase his chances of living in your stead. _That_ is noble. _That_ is courageous. _That_ is hopeful. _That_ is a true act of love. And _that_ is inspirational.”

“He’s my brother! What else am I supposed to do?”

“Do you see any other siblings doing the same as you? In this Games? Ever?”

“Be that as it may,” I digress, “what does this have to do with what Dad was yelling about?”

“Your compassion does not just stop at your brother or the rest of your family. It extends beyond, to innocent children you’ve only just met. You know full well that your odds, and Cedric’s odds, would be better if you didn’t take up the burden for caring about other tributes. Despite that knowledge, you did so anyway, because that is who you are. And you should never be sorry for who you are.”

My eyes are watering. Goddammit. “Would you tell that to my dad?”

“I don’t think I need to,” Cinna says blithely. “When I left, your mother was telling him off.”

Thank God for Mom. “I guess I had better go back and see what the damage is.”

Cinna smiles again. “It won’t be as bad as you think,” he assures me as we go back down.

He’s right. It isn’t. Dad looks like a kicked dog, and Mom doesn’t seem upset at me when we come back in. “Thank you for speaking with her,” she says warmly to Cinna. “Portia and Effie have already headed down, but they’re waiting for you if you’d like to get a ride with them.”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you for having us, Maysilee.” Cinna nods at Dad. “Haymitch.” Then me. “Ember. I’ll see you soon.” He leaves.

Mom looks between Dad and me. “I’ll go see what Cedric is up to.” And she leaves us alone.

Dad stares morosely into his empty wineglass. Mom doesn’t let him have more than two glasses each night. Apparently he had a bit of a drinking problem back before Ash and Rain were born. “It seems,” he begins slowly, “I may have come on too strongly regarding my initial feelings about you socializing with the other tributes. I apologize.”

Dad rarely apologizes for anything. Mom must’ve really reamed into him.

“It’s your nature to make friends with kids. I was wrong to try to stop that. And I was very wrong to say that you’re neglecting Ced for them.” At last, he looks at me. “You wouldn’t be the Ember we know and love if you didn’t have a little heart, even now.”

He opens his arms, and that’s all I need to go forward and hug him.

Dad says, muffled in my hair, “But we do need to talk about this Career thing that happened.”

I groan. “They were being assholes. Like I said, I shut them up. That’s it.”

“That’s not inconsequential,” Dad warns. “Careers are an arrogant, prideful lot. They don’t like anybody treating them like they’re anything less than superior. Stay off their radar from now on, okay? I don’t want you on any of their hit lists. We have a nasty bunch this year.”

“What are your thoughts?”

“Two’s tributes are the ones to worry about,” he says. “but don’t dismiss One, either. Treat the girl like Cashmere. She might seem ditzy, but she could be a cold-blooded killer underneath that pretty face. The boy doesn’t look like the sharpest tool in the shed, but I’m willing to bet that he’ll have no compunctions whatsoever about killing in the arena. And he’d probably be damn good at it.”

“What about Two?”

“The girl’s smaller and younger than usual, but don’t let her size deceive you. She’s got that...look. The one that you usually only see in Victors _after_ they come out of the Games. That she’s a killer, like it or not. And the boy…” Air gushes out of Dad’s mouth. “Please, for the love of God, Em, stay out of his way. He looks like a beast. Probably is a beast. I don’t want him crushing your skull with his bare hands as soon as you all step off the platforms.”

I’m still unnerved by the look he gave me earlier today, when he broke up a potential fight between Clove and me. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll stay faaaaar away from him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reading! I've been asked by several readers here and on FF.Net about updating faster, and the thing is Real Life is super busy, so that combined with the low interest in this story means infrequent updates. I only have so much time, and I haven't been getting a lot of feedback on this story, so I'm allocating that time elsewhere. *shrugs* I'm mercenary. I put in what I get back.
> 
> That being said, to those who do comment and subscribe and give kudos, thankyouthankyouthankyou! Seeing that little email alert in my inbox makes my day! I will generally reply to commenters who are signed in, and I will also do my best to respond to anonymous reviewers (at least those who comment with something more substantial to work with than "update faster") by posting replies in the end notes of succeeding chapters. It can never hurt to ask questions. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Despite my promise to Dad, I can’t do anything about it if Cato decides he’d rather not stay away from me. I was having such a good morning, too. The Gamemakers made us all run through some kind of gauntlet, an obstacle course, and I didn’t do too shabbily, but just mediocre enough that no one ought to pay me particular regard. Cedric was pretty damn fast, though he got winded for a moment when one of the trainers hit him with a baton.

It’s lunchtime, and we’re sitting with the same crowd from yesterday, this time with the addition of Jean, the girl from Eight, yet another kid far too young to be in the Games. We’re all listening to Cedric and Thierry arguing vivaciously about catapults—catapults!—and the best way to design them when the table falls silent.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. And I find myself instantly regretting choosing the seat that places my back to the Careers, when two muscled arms drop heavily down on the table, caging me in with a strong, hard body.

“What’s wrong,” Cato announces, “is that your table’s jabbering is bothering the rest of us.”

For some reason, I suspect that’s not all. Cato cannot have come over here just to politely ask us to turn down the volume. And I use “politely” loosely. But as much as I want to snark back at him, I remember my promise to Dad to not do anything remotely antagonizing or provocative to the Careers. I’ll have to try to bore him away. “Fine. We’ll be quieter.”

He leans in so that his lips are almost touching my ear. “Just them,” he murmurs. “I’m rather hoping you’re a screamer.”

My jaw drops. Does that mean screaming when I die, or when… Ugh. Asshole. Either way, “Keep dreaming. You’re never going to find out,” I whisper back sweetly.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, very sure,” I say at a normal volume. “Now go the fuck away. You’re ruining my appetite.”

Cedric and the others gasp and giggle. Cato doesn’t like that. His grip on the table tightens, and he presses even closer to me, if that’s possible. “Can’t wait to meet you in the arena, Twelve. We’re going to have loads of fun together.” As suddenly as he got here, he’s gone.

I can’t relax my muscles. What happened? What have I done? Why is there now a target on my back with Cato’s name on it? Fuck, Dad was right. I really shouldn’t have gone up in the Careers’ faces yesterday. Why do I do these things to myself.

“Ember? Are you okay?”

Thank God Ced and the others didn’t hear some of the things Cato said. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Cedric doesn’t believe me, but he drops it. “Can we do archery today?”

I look up sharply. “No, Ced.”

I’m usually better than my brother in the physical realm. Archery has always been the exception. Several years ago, when Katniss and Gale were teaching me how to shoot, Ced picked up a bow and hit the target, just like that. I wouldn’t say he’s Katniss good (no one is that good), but he could give Gale a run for his money in a few years.

The last thing I want to happen is to give the Careers, or any other tribute, the impression that Ced is a threat who must be taken out. Because if Ced gets his hands on a bow in the arena and over his squeamishness, he can be a pretty goddamn big threat.

During the rest of training, I can feel someone watching me again, and this time it’s actually a Career. Seriously, if Cato wants some tail that badly, why doesn’t he just go after Glimmer? She’s practically salivating over him. Does he think I’m playing hard-to-get? Because one, I’m not playing anything, and two, if I were, it’d be more like impossible-to-get.

I’m more exhausted than yesterday once training finishes, and I’m looking forward to a hot shower when a lyrical voice calls out to me, right before I can step into an elevator. “Miss Abernathy, may I speak with you for a moment?”

I tense at the sound of the voice. I want to say no. I want to snap at her. I want to figuratively bite her head off. But the other tributes are watching, some in curiosity, others in suspicion. I don’t want to give them a show. My expression is stony as I turn to face Rain. “As you wish, Miss Abernathy.”

The other tributes trickle away, except Ced. “Em? Should I…?”

“Go back upstairs, Ced,” I tell him, at the same time Rain says, “You can come with us, Cedric.”

If only my glares could kill. Ced looks between us before prevaricating, “I’ll wait out here for you, Rain.”

Rain gestures for me to follow her back inside the training room. I do so and shut the doors behind us. For a moment, all we do is stare at each other, and I take the moment to examine how my treacherous sister has changed over the years. She’s almost as pretty as Mom, with her golden hair but Dad’s smoky gray eyes, the same coloring as Ash. Rain has grown out of her awkward teenaged body and into a willowy frame that I’m sure all the other Capitolite women are coveting, though its covered up right now with a loose summer dress. And she hasn’t bothered to adopt any of the crazy Capitol fashion, so she’s still au naturel.

Her insides, I’m sure, are hideous. I zero in on the ring—which is probably worth more than the entirety of District 12—on the fourth finger of her left hand, and I wonder when the hell that happened. Looks like she’s going to be Mrs. Seneca Crane soon.

(Oh, God. Lorraine Crane. Rain Crane. Really? Really?)

She’s also scrutinizing me, apparently, because the first thing she says is “You’ve become a beautiful young woman, Ember.”

I cross my arms, waiting.

“I’m so sorry Cedric was reaped. He only has one slip. I never thought it would be him.”

I scoff. “Either you’re lying, or you’re stupider than your fellow Gamemakers give you credit for. Of course Cedric was going to be reaped. It was written in his destiny. And mine. And Ash’s. It’s written in Summer’s. And it should’ve been written in yours, but you sold yourself instead.”

Rain ignores the last accusation. “Ember, you volunteered. You didn’t have to be in the Games.”

“Didn’t have—of course I had to!” I explode. “He’s my baby brother! I have to protect him. Just because you don’t understand the concept of family loyalty doesn’t mean the rest of us have none.”

“I am loyal! I love you, and Cedric, and—”

“I find that hard to believe,” I sneer. “You threw us aside like trash the moment better opportunities came up for you.”

“No, Ember, you’re the one who threw me away!” Rain shouts back, and I find it unfair that she can remain so pretty even while angry. “I tried! I came home to visit. I wanted us to keep being sisters. You’re the one who rejected me, not the other way around.”

“Because you shouldn’t have left in the first place!”

“I had no—!” Rain clamps her mouth shuts and takes a deep breath. “Ember, if you were in my place, you would have made the exact same decisions that I did,” she says more calmly.

I am far from calm. “I’m not the traitor in this family. You are.”

Rain’s face is white, but she’s still making a valiant effort to compose herself. “Ember, I…” We both hear footsteps approaching. Rain sets her mouth in a straight line, and quicker than I thought her capable of, she shoots towards me and hisses in my ear, “Make sure you check the very back of the Cornucopia! You and Cedric must work together. Prepare for the long haul. Always be ready.”

The doors open, and in strolls Seneca Crane. “Lorraine,” he says sternly yet fondly, “you know we’re not supposed to privately contact any of the tributes.” He turns to me and smiles. “Even if one of them is your sister. Ember, is it?”

He’s smiling at me so amicably, as if he and Rain aren’t going to be using the arena to try to kill me over the next few weeks. I can’t stand it. I stalk out of the room, shouting over my shoulder, “I hope you have a happy rest of your lives together! We all know I won’t be around to share it.”

My head is swimming with anger and confusion. What was Rain trying to tell me? What kind of nonsense was she spouting? The Cornucopia? Does she want me to die in the bloodbath? I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like she’s particularly fond of me.

Cedric looks pale, but before I can ask him what’s wrong, something that feels like a metal bar wraps itself around my shoulders and hauls me to the elevator. “Ember!” Cedric shouts as the doors close.

I’m slammed into the wall, and I see that the steel trap surrounding me is Cato. “What the fuck?”

“So you know a Gamemaker, don’t you, Twelve?” he sneers. “And not just that, you’re related to one.”

“What’s it to you?”

“If you think you can use your connections to win the Games, you’re dead wrong. In more ways than one.”

I scoff. “Now, now, Two, when did I ever say I intend to win?”

Cato blinks then scowls. “You were telling the fucking truth during the reaping? You’re actually betting on your brother? God, you’re either stupid or insane.”

The doors open, and I manage to glimpse that we’re on the second floor before Cato lugs me out to slam me against the wall of the hallway instead. “Excuse you, can you stop manhandling me?”

He ignores my politely worded request. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but if you think you can get your sister or whoever she is to bend the rules for you, you’ve got another thing coming.”

I laugh shortly. “Come on, Two, you ought to know that the only rule in the Games is that only one person comes back out. And don’t get your panties in a twist. I have no intention of asking any Gamemaker to bend the rules for me.” Least of all Lorraine Abernathy.

“Good.” He plants his hands on the wall on either side of my head. “Because I’m going to win, and I don’t intend to let you or anyone else cheat me of that.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Someone’s overly confident.”

“I’ve trained my entire life for the Games,” he snarls.

“What a surprise.” I narrow my eyes. “So have I.” Shit. I wasn’t supposed to say that.

“In that rat’s nest you call District 12? By the pathetic excuses for Victors that you call your parents?” He leans in. “You have nothing on me.”

Oh, really? I bring my knee up, hard, and Cato doubles over. Not even Careers are completely invincible, eh? I lunge for the elevator, but he must have a super-fast recovery time, or a really high pain tolerance, because he has the presence of mind to grab my ankle and pull me to the floor. “Let me go!”

“Not...until you tell me what you and that Gamemaker are planning,” he seethes, pinning me down with his body.

“I’m not planning anything!”

“Liar!”

The elevator opens. “Get the hell off my daughter!” With surprising strength, Mom hauls Cato up, giving me enough space to wriggle away and scramble to my feet.

“Get your hands off me!” Cato moves to retaliate, but Mom nimbly ducks out of the way and stands by my side.

“What the fuck is going on out here?” The door to District 2’s apartment bangs against the wall, and Brutus storms out. He stares at Mom. “Donner. It’s usually your husband who’s causing trouble.”

“I was ending the trouble,” Mom snaps. “Are you so unobservant that you can’t even tell when your tribute is assaulting my daughter right under your nose?”

Brutus spares me half a glance. “If your kid can’t defend herself, it’s not my problem.”

Mom places her hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t report this altercation. Tributes aren’t supposed to fight before the Games.”

“Who says mine started it?”

“I found him pinning my daughter to the floor!”

Brutus snickers. “Donner, you’re making it sound less like a fight and more like a hook-up.” He rakes his eyes across us. “Can’t say I’d blame him. I can see she gets her looks from you.”

Mom’s grip tightens. “We’re done here. Let’s go, Ember.”

“Hey, Donner, let me know the moment you admit to yourself that Haymitch isn’t cutting it for you anymore!” Brutus’s cackling is cut off by the doors shutting.

Mom immediately turns to me. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine.”

She says nothing else, but once we’re safely ensconced on the twelfth floor, she starts again. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asks softly.

“Lorraine wanted to speak with me privately, so Ced waited for me while—” I start. “Ced! Where’s Ced?”

“He’s in his room. He raced up here a few minutes ago, telling me that the boy from Two attacked you.”

Phew. “Well, Ced waited for me while I talked. The second I left the training room, Cato was on me and took me to the second floor. He was really wound up about how we’re related to a Gamemaker, and he accused me of trying to cheat.” I shrug. “He was being a huge douche.”

“Do you think he’ll be causing any more problems?”

I nod reluctantly. “I...may have said a few things to rile him up some more.”

Mom sighs. “Ember…”

“I didn’t mean to! It just came out.”

“You get your mouth from your father,” she mutters. “Oh, Em, of all the people you could’ve gotten mixed up with. If it were the tributes from One, I could count on their mentors to at least listen, but…”

“He started it!” I protest. “Cato’s the one who approached me today, saying the awfulest things. He’s the one who cornered me and made me go with him to the second floor.”

“I believe you, Ember,” Mom says calmly. “But are you sure you did nothing, besides standing up to him and the other Careers yesterday, that got his attention fixated on you?”

I probably could have not said a few things to him during lunch today—but again, he started it. He was the one who tried to torment me. And as for what happened just now...actually, that was Rain’s fault. She didn’t have to call out to me so publicly to get my attention. I ignore the fact that I didn’t have to reply by calling her “Miss Abernathy.”

“Nothing.”

Mom looks skeptical. “Are you sure, Ember?”

“Yes!” Speaking of Rain, I try to recall what she said to me, verbatim. Not the nonsense about how she was sorry or wasn’t a traitor, but what she whispered in my ear right before Seneca Crane walked in. Should I ask Mom about it? Before I can, Cedric wanders into the room. His face lights up when he sees me.

“Em, you’re okay!”

I manage a smile and ruffle his hair. “Of course I am. I wasn’t going to let a stupid Career hurt me.”

Cedric doesn’t look satisfied, though. “I dunno. That guy said some pretty nasty things to you during lunch. I was worried.”

“Things?” Mom interjects. “What things?”

Dammit. I love Ced, but right now, I kind of hate him. And how on Earth did he hear what Cato said? The kid must have super-hearing. “Just some taunts, Mom.” I stare at Cedric, willing him to shut up.

He doesn’t get the message. “They were awful, Mom! I think he really has it out for Em.” And now Cedric demonstrates his nearly perfect memory by quoting, “He said, ‘I’m rather hoping you’re a screamer,’ and ‘Can’t wait to meet you in the arena, Twelve. We’re going to have loads of fun together.’ He’s going to try to kill her, really badly. I just know he’s going to go after her!”

Bless his twelve-year-old heart. At least he only thinks Cato wants to kill me, and not any alternative underlying intentions. His innocence is, for now, preserved.

Mom’s face is white. “Ced, can you go to your room?”

“Mom!”

“Please, Cedric, do as I say.” Mom’s tone brooks no argument, and he knows it. With a grumble, Ced slouches away. She waits until we hear his door closing before starting on me. “Ember, why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“I didn’t—I didn’t think I needed to,” I say lamely.

“Ember, your father and I need to know everything! It’s your life at stake, yours and Cedric’s! Why would you think that this...this...what Cato said to you isn’t relevant?”

I pale. “Please don’t tell Dad about this.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Mom demands. “He needs to know this just as much as I do.”

“You know what he’ll do! He’ll get angry and storm down to the second floor and get in trouble!”

Mom is upset, but she’s still rational. I know she sees my point. “Em, why did you try to keep this hidden? Are you sure that boy didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m sure! Look, Mom, I didn’t…” I swallow. “I didn’t mean to hide anything. I just… What was I supposed to say? ‘Mom, this tribute whom you found attacking me insinuated that he’s planning on either killing or having sex with me’? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Ember, of course I would never want to hear that! But I still need to hear it.” Mom takes a deep breath and rubs her forehead. “Alright. Give me a moment to change from parent to mentor mode.” When she’s ready, she looks back up. “How likely do you think Cato will cause you and Ced trouble in the arena?”

I bite my knuckle as I consider the situation. “He was probably already going to target us for being your and Dad’s kids. In light of all this...I think he’ll be gunning even more for us, to mark us as his kill. Me, at least, if not Ced. I would bet good money that he has me on his hit list now.”

Mom nods in agreement. “The sexual insinuations bring complications. He’s definitely attracted to you—”

“Really?” I interrupt, disbelieving.

“Ember, I saw how he was looking at you. He’s attracted,” Mom says matter-of-factly. “Now, it’s not common, but it has been known for tributes, usually Careers, to engage in sexual relations during the Games, sometimes for as little reason as they just can. I can see him finding you and…” Her eyes narrow. “...misusing you, whenever he happens on you, before he kills you. Alternatively, I can also see him seeking you out at the beginning of the Games, maybe even before, to offer you ‘protection’ to ensure you, and maybe Ced, live to the final six or eight, in exchange for...well, sex. I’m not sure if he’ll go for the latter, since he did assault you just now and he would know that would deter you from allying with him. Then again, he also knows you’re connected to Rain, and he may think that having you on his side will buy the Gamemakers’ favor.”

“So, what? If he does have the balls to ask for an alliance, do I say yes?” I ask incredulously.

“The mentor in me is saying you should at least consider it, because it’ll buy you, and maybe Cedric, time and security. The mom in me is saying hell no and to stay far away from him.”

“I already tried that at Dad’s behest.” I sigh. “It didn’t work.”

“Yes. Clearly any strategy to try to shake off his interest is going to fail. So we’ll have to use his attraction against him.”

My eyes widen. “Mom!”  
She side-eyes me. “Don’t tell your father about this, and I won’t tell him anything, either.”

I manage a laugh for the first time in a while. “Deal.”

Mom mumbles to herself. “Make him feel protective? Make him more unwilling to kill her? Get him to let his guard down? Emotional attachment? Oh, if only Haymitch and I hadn’t already used the star-crossed lovers…”

“If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here, Mom,” I say quietly. “Or Ced, or Summer. And either you or Dad, or both.” I add, “And not with all the acting classes in the world could I make anyone think I’m anything remotely in love with Cato. Except for the fact that he’s kind of hot, he has no redeeming factors whatsoever.”

Mom stares. “Everyone has a redeeming factor, at least,” she murmurs. “Ember, tell me again why he attacked you after your conversation with Rain?”

“He heard I was related to a Gamemaker and thought I was cheating by using my connection?”

“That’s it!” Mom looks almost giddy.

I raise an eyebrow. “His one redeeming factor is his dislike of cheaters?”

“No, it’s his sense of honor. Don’t laugh,” she says sharply when I start to scoff. “Hear me out. Careers play by a different set of rules than the rest of us. They have different morals, different standards, different expectations. They live, breathe, and die by the Games. Anything that compromises the integrity of the Games is a threat. He thought you were using Rain to give yourself an unfair advantage, and that’s a travesty in his book. In his opinion, the Games should be won fairly, through strength or skill or cunning, not through familial relations.” Mom spreads her hands. “So now we have at least two things to work with: his attraction to you, and his sense of honor and fairness in the Games.”

I try to connect the dots, fit the two pieces together. I can’t. “So, what, we get him to choose one over the other? Preserve me or preserve the rules? That won’t work, because I’m pretty sure he won’t pick me.”

“No, he won’t,” Mom agrees. “Unless the rules change so he thinks he can have both.”

I stare at her. “Mom, you said yourself just now that you and Dad already played the lovers card. They’re not going to let two tributes win again, ever.”

Mom pauses, then says, overly loudly, “Yes, you’re right, Ember. We’ll have to think of a different strategy.” She leans in close toward me. “Ember,” she whispers, almost inaudibly, “I need to tell—”

The door to the apartment opens, and a disgruntled Dad slouches in with Effie in his wake. “Good evening, Maysilee and Ember!” Effie says brightly. “We’ve had such a marvelous day! We won’t have to worry about anything when it comes to sponsors, I assure you. Let me see if they have dinner ready for us…” She scampers off to the dining room.

Dad takes one look at us and immediately knows something is up. “What is it?” he asks warily. Mom does that eye-communicating thing with him. He scowls. “No, Maysilee.”

“They need to—”

“Not yet!” he hisses, casting worried glances all around. Bugged. We’re always bugged.

The only person behaving as usual during dinner is Summer. In fact, she’s acting even more Summery than usual, as if to make up for our lack of cheer. I wonder if my baby sister catches on to more than she lets on. Halfway through the meal, Mom and Dad excuse themselves and leave the apartment. I bet they’re on the roof, where they’re least likely to be overheard. I’m dying to know what it was that Mom wanted to tell me before Dad interrupted, and any strategy she may have come up with to deal with Cato. As soon as I’m done, I leave, too, telling Ced he’s in charge of Summer.

“But—!”

I place my hands on my hips. “Do you want to be a grown-up or not?”

“Yes,” he says sullenly.

“Then think of this as an opportunity to demonstrate your responsibility.” I hear Summer’s innocently evil giggles as I exit. Thankfully, Mom and Dad aren’t kissing or anything traumatizing like that when I find them. He has his arms wrapped tightly around her, chin propped on the top of her head as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. They aren’t speaking; they’re just there, beside each other, with each other, two halves of a whole. It’s moments like these that remind me yes, they really do love each other, and it stopped being just for show a long, long time ago. Sometime before I was born but after Ash and Rain were.

(Does that have anything to do with how we all ended up turning out?)

Dad spots me first, and he smiles wanly at me before whispering in Mom’s ear. She unwraps herself from him and heads for the stairs, patting my cheek as she passes me.

“C’mere, Ember.” Dad motions for me to join him, and I do.

“I thought Mom wanted to talk to me?”

“She did. She does. But not right now.” Dad tucks his arm around me and we watch the city together. His voice drops a few decibels. “Em, you know that you, Ced, and Summer mean the world to us. With the two of you in the Games...it’s killing us.”

“Dad, I never asked. Are you...disappointed that I volunteered?”

“Well, let’s see. It was between you, one of your best friends, and little Primrose Everdeen. I’m certainly angry—not at you, but at the Capitol for making you choose. I’m sad, because this cursed family of ours is destined for tragedy. I’m upset, because I am, above all else, selfish, and of course I would choose you over either of the Everdeen girls. But disappointed, in you, sweetheart? Never.” He pauses. “Well, maybe when you tried to sneak Michetto Mellark over that one evening. But not in this case.”

I groan. “Dad, I told you, we weren’t doing anything!” We were planning on making out, but that was it. Didn’t count as “anything.”

“I still need to punish that townie punk.” Dad waves off my protests. “Point is, Em: no, I am not disappointed in you for volunteering. I’m actually proud of you for being so brave. Without you, I honestly don’t know if Ced would last in the arena. Now he has a fighting chance.”

“He’s such a smart little dweeb,” I say fondly. “He could’ve made it. I mean, you made it out of the arena, and you didn’t have much going for you besides your brains.”

Dad pulls my ponytail. “Brat. Now you’re forgetting: I had your mother. If it weren’t for her, I would have died. Likewise, Ced needs you. And your brother might not show it, but I know him. He’s relieved that you’re here. You’re keeping him grounded, and you’re sacrificing everything for him. And he knows it.”

I try not to sniffle. “So what were you and Mom talking about up here? What was she trying to tell me earlier?”

“Ah. That. We can’t tell you yet.”

“But Mom made it sound really important.”

“It is. But we can’t tell you yet,” he repeats.

“Dad, the Games start in a few days. There isn’t a very wide window of opportunity to tell me.”

“A few days is all we need. Do you trust me, Ember? Do you trust your mother?”

I nod fervently.

“Then wait, just for a little longer. Okay? We get through the interviews, and I promise you we’ll tell you.”

“And Ced?”

He considers it. “You’re going to stick with him the whole way, and I don’t want him to worry about it. Just you.”

“Okay.” We stand in silence for a few more moments. I feel a deep sense of calm, and I can almost believe that the Games aren’t starting soon, that my days aren’t numbered. Almost. But at least I have my family to get me through it, until the very end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly, my greatest cardinal sin as a fanfic writer is never updating. Sorry, fellow Panemaniacs. 
> 
> *insert obligatory request for comments even though I'm a terrible updater*
> 
> Please thank ProudAthena13, my best friend and beta, for reminding me that few though you lovelies may be, I do have readers, and I have a responsibility to write this story.


	5. Chapter 5

Cedric, the poor boy, looks queasy. It’s almost his turn to go in for a private session with the Gamemakers, and he seems about to puke at any moment. I don’t think projectile vomiting will get him a high score. “Ced, do you need me to find you a trashcan?” I ask quietly.

“I need to lie down,” he mumbles.

I rub his back. “It’s okay if you’re nervous—but you don’t need to be! Shoot some arrows, make a few snares, prove how smart you are. You’ll do great. Besides, even if they do decide to be jerks and give you a bad score, it’s okay. We’ll still have a bunch of sponsors, because our sponsors already know you, and they won’t let one number get in the way.”

Ced’s smile is forced, but color is starting to return to his face. “Arrows. Snares. Got it. What are you going to do?”

I shrug. “I have no idea. I’m just going to wing it.” I’m not concerned about keeping sponsors hooked, either, or impressing the Gamemakers.

Ced is called inside, and I spend the next ten minutes examining the split ends in my hair. And wondering how and what the other tributes did. Rue, I’m sure, climbed some things and showed off her agility. Ardi probably made some fishing lines and played around with a trident. I have no idea how Thierry and Marilou would have demonstrated their technological prowess, since there’s nothing provided in the training center that would allow them to show off. And little Jean is from Eight, which is textiles, and I’ve seen nothing at all in the last few days to give any indication that she’s picked up useful skills from her industry or anywhere else.

The Careers are a no-brainer. Marvel hefted around some spears and made dummy shish-kebabs. Glimmer stood there and looked pretty. Clove threw knives and acted like a sociopath. Cato beheaded a few dozen dummies and beat his chest like a caveman. They all scored well. Yawn.

Should I try for a score of one? That would be impressive, in a different way.

My name is called. I tighten my ponytail and enter the lair. I’m told that around this time, the Gamemakers have usually completely lost interest, since they don’t expect anything good out of Twelve’s tributes. I thought that a few of them would at least still be watching, since Ced and I are Victors’ children, so we’re a bit of an anomaly.

I was wrong.

They’re all pigging out and guzzling drinks. Only Rain is abstaining, and even she isn’t watching me. Whatever happened to being loyal to the family? Obviously a lie. She’s cozying up to her boo instead. Fine. Whatever. Like I want her approval. I know the Gamemakers have been here for four hours already, watching tribute after tribute, but you know what? This is their fucking job. They’re making money out of our blood. The least they could do is have the fucking courtesy to watch us sell our souls to them.

At first, I manage to rein in my temper. I just want to do my thing and get out. I shoot a few arrows, like I told Ced, and I’m a decent shot, though nowhere near as good as him. I pick up some knives and go after an innocent dummy. When I’m done stabbing it, I look over at the Gamemakers again. They’ve brought in a giant roast pig—I guess they’re into cannibalism—and it’s clear that they haven’t been paying the least bit of attention to me.

Fine. I’ll make them watch.

I take the dummy I’ve been slicing up and drag it to the camouflage station. Red is the brightest color available, so I take that and paint its chest. Then I lug it with me to the fire-making station, recall how I made a bonfire the other day, and set to work.

The Gamemakers finally look over when I get a good blaze going. Even Rain has stopped snuggling with Seneca to watch me curiously—and worriedly. Great! This is mostly for her benefit. I make sure they can all read what I wrote on the dummy’s torso, and then I kick it into the fire.

“Lorraine Abernathy” bursts into flames.

When I return to the apartment, Dad sees my face and groans. “Em, what did you do?”

“I just got the lowest score in the history of the Hunger Games,” I say pseudo-happily as I head to my room. “Can we get zeroes?”

Dad mutters something about needing wine, desperately.

“Ember, tell me we’re not going to regret this,” Mom pleads.

“I certainly won’t,” I state. I smile widely at Cedric. “How’d you do?”

“She’s cracked,” I hear Dad mumble. “My daughter’s nuts. How did this happen.”

“I was okay,” Cedric says slowly, warily. “They didn’t pay much attention to me, except Rain. I hit close to the center of the target every time with the bow. What did _you_ do?” he parrots Dad’s question.

I start for my room again, to change into something more comfortable. “I’ll tell you after the scores come out.”

Once ensconced in my room, I allow the mask of bravado to fall. The truth is, I started regretting my actions on the elevator ride up. But, fuck, did it feel good to burn that dummy. And the expression on Rain’s face? Just the cherry on top.

Dad’s somehow gotten his hands on a bottle of wine by the time I reemerge, and Mom is studiously braiding Summer’s hair. Cinna and Portia are having a hushed conversation, and Effie is on the phone. Ced is reading. I judge that he’ll be the least likely to bug me, so I sit beside him. Tension holds the room hostage, and it amps up when the scores begin to play.

The Careers start out strong with high scores: Marvel nine, Glimmer eight, Cato and Clove ten. Thierry got a solid six, and Marilou a five. I’m pleasantly surprised with Ardi, who managed an eight—the same as Glimmer! Oh, she must be having an awful tantrum right now over the fact that a twelve-year-old got the same score as her. No one else stands out, and I don’t pay much attention until District 8. Jean has a three. Ouch. Not unexpected, but still. Ouch. Thresh scored a ten, but I don’t have time to ponder how he got it when Rue’s seven flashes on screen.

“Twelve-year-olds are dominating this year,” I comment to no one in particular. Then I grin at Cedric. “You’re next, kiddo.”

Cedric buries his nose in his book.

Caesar Flickerman announces his score. “An _eight?_ ” I exclaim, delighted. “Ced, that’s wonderful!”

“What?” He stares at the screen, disbelieving. “How?”

“This must’ve been paying attention to your archery, after all.” My pride in him is short-lived, though, because I am, of course, next. Zero or one? Will they set a new record just for me?

“Ember Abernathy, District 12. Her score is…” Caesar Flickerman looks down at his notes, and his jaw drops. Actually drops. New record it is. Hello, zero.

“ _Twelve._ ”

Well, there goes my jaw, too. Dad immediately rounds on me. “Alright, Ember, what happened in that room?”

I’m still gaping at the screen. “I wrote ‘Lorraine Abernathy’ on a dummy set it on fire.”

Mom sighs and covers her face with her hands. Dad stares at me for a moment before turning back to his wine and drinking straight from the bottle.

“Why?” Ced asks.

“I don’t even know anymore,” I mutter.

Dad barks in laughter. “You don’t even know? Great, that’s just great. You’re number one on the Gamemakers’ hit list now, not to mention every other tributes’, and you don’t even know why. _Great._ ”

I scowl at him. “Actually, I do know, but I thought I’d spare you from having to hear about how your darling eldest daughter wouldn’t give the light of day to your other daughter right before she has to go into an arena of death.”

“Oh, don’t give me that excuse, young lady. I heard about how Rain tried to talk to you yesterday. If you rejected her, that’s on you, sweetheart.”

“I can’t believe it!” I screech. “You’re siding with _her?_ ”

Dad shrugs. “What can I say? I love all my children equally.” He swigs from his wine again before Mom snatches it away.

“Enough, Haymitch.” She hands the bottle to Effie. “Make sure my husband doesn’t get his hands on any more alcohol.” Then she comes to me. “Up, Ember. Let’s talk.”

I shoot Dad a glare before stomping after Mom to the rooftop. “It’s not fair, I don’t understand why Dad—”

“Ember, that’s enough attitude from you,” Mom says sharply.

I quieten. “Sorry,” I whisper.

“We’re settling this issue you have with Rain, right now.”

“Mom,” I say slowly, cautiously, “shouldn’t we be focusing on the Games?”

“Yes. And we are. Ember, please tell me, in your own words, why you’re so angry with your sister.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale sharply. “Okay. Okay. Fine. You want to know why I’m mad at her? Because she abandoned us. She _left_ us. She chose... _this_ —” I gesture at the city around us “—over our family! She betrayed us for the very thing that haunts us most! And she thinks it doesn’t matter. She thinks she can slip right back into our family, as if nothing happened.”

“Ember.” Mom smooths my hair. “Have you ever thought about, and I mean really thought about, why Rain came here?”

“So she could buy her way out of the Games,” I retort.

“Ember, _think._ ” Mom’s voice is hushed. “Imagine you were Rain, when she was twelve. Her twin was just reaped for the Games, and he came out almost destroyed. She knew her other siblings would very likely have the same fate. She was offered an opportunity to one day be in a position of power in these very Games, perhaps even in time to be able to help. Now what do you think?”

I don’t believe her. I can’t. I won’t. “If that were you, yeah, I could see you doing that. But Rain? Never.”

“Ember. Your sister loves you.”

“No, she doesn’t—”

“She does,” Mom insists. “She loves you. She cares about you. You and Cedric. Promise me you will keep that in mind during the Games.” I don’t respond. “Ember, please. Remember she loves you. I trust her with my life. I trust her with yours!”

“Your faith is misplaced.”

Mom takes a deep breath. “Ember, you know that I want what’s best for you and Cedric, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Now I’m telling you, what’s in your best interest is to _trust Rain._ If not for your sake, then for Cedric’s. If you want him out of the arena, your best chance at that is to trust your sister. Please.”

I clench my knuckles. “I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you, Ember.” Mom sighs and continues to comb my hair with her fingers. “Now, do you have a token?”

I scramble to catch up with the change in subject. “No.”

“Good. I have one for you. It’s undergoing approval right now, but Cinna will make sure you get it.”

“What is it?”

Mom smiles faintly. “The mockingjay pin that I wore in my Games.”

The pin is a family heirloom on her side of the family, but it’s precious to us for reasons beyond that. Dad told us once, when we were watching a recording of their Games, that seeing the pin on Mom’s jacket made him trust her. The mockingjay is a symbol in Twelve, and in other Districts, of rebellion and resilience. Dad figured anyone wearing one couldn’t be too bad.

Now I’m going to get it?

“Shouldn’t you give it to Ced? I mean...if it’s for good luck, I’d rather you use it on him.”

Mom cups my face. “Ember, the pin is for you. Besides, Cedric already has a token.”

“What?”

“His favorite bookmark.”

I laugh. “You’re kidding me.”

“He had it tucked in the book he was reading at the Reaping. If it’s what he wants, fine. It’ll fit in his pocket, no problem.” Mom bites her lip. “Now, Ember, bear in mind that Rain is personally approving your pin.”

I stop laughing. “Did you really have to bring that up, Mom?”

“Yes. And I can’t tell you why at the moment.”

“After the interviews?” I press.

“After the interviews,” she confirms.

Mom and Dad are making this reveal seem like a huge deal. I hope it lives up to the hype.

The next day, Mom and Dad rehearse with us for the interviews, while Effie looks on and offers pointers. Ced’s angle is smart, cute, and cheeky. No problem, he just has to be himself. Mine is harder, because Mom and Dad keep disagreeing over what it should be.

“Sexy? Really, May?” Dad asks incredulously.

“Not _sexy_ ,” Mom says impatiently. “But at least appealing. Desirable.”

“Um...why?”

Apparently, Mom kept her word and didn’t mention anything about Cato to Dad. Go Mom. “The Capitol knows Ember as an adorable young girl. Our daughter. We need to introduce a new aspect to them. Make her more than a child. Make her a woman. Our family’s ‘fanbase’ is already mostly sold on her just for being an Abernathy. We want people beyond that group to support her for being _Ember._ ”

“Okay. Fine. But Ember doesn’t necessarily equal ‘desirable.’” Dad looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “No offense, sweetheart.” I glower at him. “Ember is a lot of things. She’s brave. She’s witty. She’s sarcastic. She’s loving.” Dad gestures wildly. “There! She loves her brother! Why don’t we work on that, _as we originally planned?_ ”

“Because we still wouldn’t be selling her as Ember. We’d be selling her as Cedric’s sister, and that’s little better than our daughter. Look, Haymitch, this isn’t going to work. You focus on Cedric, and I’ll focus on Ember.”

Dad doesn’t look happy, but Mom ropes Effie onto her side, so he gives in. “Just please, for the love of God, May, keep it toned down. I don’t want the Capitol to think Em’s a female version of Finnick Odair.”

I shudder. “Yes, Mom, please tone it down.”

Dad and Ced head to another room, and Effie decides her expertise is more needed with them so leaves us alone. “Right, then. Desirable,” Mom repeats. “Can you do that, Ember?”

“Um…”

“You and Michetto Mellark had a thing going on for a while, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t serious. And we didn’t do anything more than kiss,” I add hastily.

“I know you didn’t,” Mom says matter-of-factly. “Now, Michetto definitely found you desirable. Do you remember doing anything to encourage that?”

“He mostly just liked the way I look, I guess.”

“Cinna will take care of that. But you need to contribute something as well. When you were out with Michetto, how did you behave?”

I think hard. We broke up only a few weeks earlier, but it already feels like a lifetime ago. “I smiled and laughed a lot. I made an extra effort to seem funny. I complimented him.”

Mom nods. “Good. Do the same tonight. You have a lovely smile and laugh; use them. Caesar is a wonderful interviewer, so it shouldn’t be hard to ensure the tone of your conversation stays light-hearted and joking. And you know the Capitol well enough to be able to come up with nice things to say when he asks.”

“Is that enough to be desirable?” I ask skeptically. “That just sounds like charming to me.”

“Ember, you’re beautiful, and I’m not saying that just because I’m your mother. Because you’re beautiful, Caesar is guaranteed to ask you about any boys back home. When he does, I don’t want you to name anyone in particular. Play coy. Say you’ve had one or two boyfriends, but nothing serious, like you just told me.”

“That’s it?”

“For you, yes. I’m going to need to borrow Ced to help you out. It’s only fair, since you’ll be dedicating part of your interview to him.” Mom cocks her head. “Any ideas on what you’re going to say about Cedric?”

“I’ll talk him up. Say how he’s really smart and sweet.”

“And Caesar will probably ask you about what you told Effie at the Reaping, that you’re here to make sure he gets home. How are you going to respond?”

“My answer stays the same,” I say firmly.

Mom continues coaching me on various possible ways the interview could go. She helps me practice walking in heels, since I seldom wear them, and Cinna is sure to include them in my outfit for tonight. Eventually, I am whisked off into my prep team’s care. After I’m plucked and primped to perfection, Cinna arrives to dress me.

“This is the dress that’s the reason you asked about Madge’s nickname for me, right?” I ask with my eyes closed, per his request.

“Mm-hmm.”

I wait. “Is that all I’m going to get?”

“In mere moments, you shall see and know all,” he says mysteriously. “How are you feeling about the interview?”

“I’m alright. I’ve been on TV before, done interviews before. It’s nothing terribly new. Can I look yet?”

He laughs. “Someone’s impatient. Yes, you may look.”

I open my eyes. They widen. “Cinna, you’ve outdone yourself. And that’s saying a hell of a lot.”

“Thank you,” he replies demurely.

The bodice of my dress is a crimson corset, and the skirt velvety black. The dress itself is a work of art, cut to flatter my body and emphasize my curves. But it’s the cloak around my shoulders that’s the true masterpiece. It’s yellow, but it’s also more than yellow. The fabric changes before my eyes, rippling red and orange, as if a fire is dancing within the material. When I give an experimental twirl, I look like I’m surrounded by an inferno. When I take a few steps around the room, the cloak flutters like wings and flashes in time with my pace—it brightens, even more luminescent than it was before, then quietly fades into its default hue.

“I spent a long time pleasantly studying fireflies,” Cinna says as I admire his work. “Its head is predominantly red and its body is mainly black, but its tail is yellow. From a certain angle, its wings look yellow as well. And as you know, its light blinks on and off in the darkness.”

“Cinna, it’s marvelous.” I go in for a hug.

“Do me proud on that stage,” he tells me.

“I will,” I promise.

We exit, and I see Ced dolled up as well, in a red and black suit. “Wow, Em!” he exclaims. “You look awesome!”

“Thank you. You’re quite handsome yourself.”

Mom has her hand tucked in the crook of Dad’s arm, and she’s gazing at us with a tender look in her eyes. Before she can say anything, though, Effie rushes in. “We’re behind schedule! We must get going, we must go, go, go—oh, Ember, you look lovely—let’s _go!_ ”

We’re the last ones down, and since we’re District 12, Ced and I just slip in to the end of the line, so Rue and Thresh are the only ones who notice us arriving. “Ember, you look amazing!” Rue proclaims.

“Thank you, Rue. You as well.” She’s been equipped with golden wings, which only serve to make her look more angelic. And hopelessly young. I nod at her District partner. “Thresh, looking good.” He grunts in response.

Rue turns her smile onto Ced. “Cedric, you look great, too.”

Cedric nods. I elbow him. “Yeah, s-same to y-you.”

The line starts moving, and we file onstage. The lighting is such that we can’t see any of the audience members, except those in the first few rows—namely mentors, stylists, and escorts—but you can feel the presence of all the Capitolites crawling on your skin. And hear them, obviously. They’re screaming as we seat ourselves.

When Glimmer strolls to center-stage, I have to resist the urge to cover Ced’s eyes. God, does she really not care that she’s leaving absolutely nothing to imagination? Thank goodness Cinna has more taste than One’s stylists. Her interview is rife with innuendos, and she never drops her sultry tone. I glance at Cedric, who’s fidgeting uncomfortably. He probably wishes he had a book. I wish I had a book.

Marvel is up next, and he’s charming, funny, and loud. And stupid. Which doesn’t make sense. Careers are supposed to be the perfect killing machines, and that entails some modicum of intelligence. Perhaps he’s hiding his true cunning beneath a facade of idiocy? Careers are usually more about showing off their attributes, not burying them, but I wouldn’t discount that strategy out of hand. It worked well enough for Johanna Mason.

Clove is as cold as Marvel is warm, speaking concisely in clipped tones. But she also tosses in a good helping of sarcasm, which wins over some of the audience members who aren’t impressed with her ruthless confidence and matter-of-factness. How exactly do they train Careers over in those Districts? Do they give some sort of personality test so they can match each kid with the best Career archetype to pose as at the Capitol should they be selected to volunteer? All of them, even icy Clove, seem to have some sort of charm, no doubt to win sponsors. They’re all confident. They’re all smart, though that’s arguable in Glimmer’s and possibly Marvel’s cases. They’re all skilled, and they’re all deadly. But each one still has his or her own individual personality that makes them stand out, and I wonder how much of that is contrived.

It’s Cato who steals the show, before the rest of us even have a chance to speak for ourselves. His suit is sleek and black, but it has no hope of hiding his bulging biceps. I doubt that was his stylist’s intention, anyway. As he shakes hands with Caesar, he wears an easy, arrogant smile, and I can almost believe that he’s some minor Capitol celebrity here for an ordinary interview. Not a soon-to-be killer ready to win over the wealthiest citizens so that he can better murder children.

And no, I am not judging him too harshly. It’s clear from his responses to Caesar that he’s looking forward to killing in the arena. I want to take Ced’s hand, to reassure us both, but there are cameras on us, so all I can do is clench my fist. Maybe it’s part of the District 2 primary school curriculum to purge schoolchildren of any empathy for fellow humans.

The crowd goes wild when the buzzer rings, and Caesar bellows Cato’s name, holding up his arm as if he’s already won the Games. Poor Marilou is next, and she can’t possibly hope to follow that with anything attention-grabbing. Half the audience is still gabbering about Cato by the time she finishes with her interview, and Thierry has little better luck. The fervor has died down somewhat by the time Ardi is up, so he manages to scrape by decently.

My heart is beating steadily when Thresh concludes his turn. Just another interview. Just selling myself, my family, to the Capitol. Same old, same old. When Thresh lumbers back to his seat, I’m standing, a winsome smile on my face. Cinna’s cloak is a comforting weight on my shoulders as I stride to Caesar, shielding me from the audience that is dying to devour me. I hold out my hand, and Caesar takes it, but instead of shaking, he kisses it.

“Ember Abernathy!” he croons. “The hidden jewel of District 12!” Not so hidden, though, since the Capitol gets a huge dose of us every year around this time. We sit down, and the crowd quiets. “Many of us here at the Capitol have been hoping that you’d follow in your parents’ footsteps, but some of us were starting to think that day would never come. How does it feel to be in the same place they were, twenty-four years ago?”

Desirable. Complimentary. Funny. “Not quite the same,” I correct lightly. “Instead of a romantic interest, I have my baby brother with me. He’ll do.”

Chuckles ripple across the audience, and Caesar. “Why, Ember, are you trying to tell us something? Is there someone special back home you wish were here?”

I shrug carelessly. “A few people.” Madge. Katniss. Gale. Peeta. Not the _someone special_ he meant, but they’re special to me.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure half the boys in your District are cursing themselves for not volunteering.”

“And the other half is nursing their broken hearts,” I quip. The Capitol laughs. They’ll find anything funny.

“Now, Ember,” Caesar says, calming the audience, “in all seriousness. When you volunteered, we were all stunned! Stunned, I tell you. Of course we understand why you’d be so eager to participate in the Games, given that both your parents and your elder brother are Victors, but you’re competing against your own sibling. What were you thinking?”

I find where Mom and Dad are sitting. _Disappointed, in you? Never._ “I love Cedric,” I say quietly, but firmly. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get him home.” _Desirable. Complimentary. Funny._ I say, louder, “Besides, I knew if I were just spectating, I’d be wishing I could step through the TV screen to shake sense into him during the Games. Literally. So I may as well be here to do it in person.” The screens shift to show Ced, just in time to catch him sticking his tongue out at me. The Capitol loves it.

Caesar places his hand over his heart. “Such sibling love is admirable. I salute you, Ember. But surely you have your own aspirations of winning?”

No, it certainly won’t do for me to publicly write myself off, even if everyone with half a brain knows I have. I have to pretend I have at least some hope of emerging from the arena. “Well, it would be pretty great to have my own house. Then I don’t have to worry about curfew, or sneaking people in and out under my parents’ noses.”

The television host cackles in delight. “Oh, I’m sure your parents would be happy not to deal with that anymore, either!” The cameras switch to Mom and Dad, who look convincingly good-humored. “Now, ah, Ember. We’re _all_ wondering, I’m sure, about your training score.” The audience murmurs in agreement. “Twelve. A _twelve!_ Never in the history of the Games has anyone received a twelve. Ember, we all have just one question—one word, for you... _how?_ ”

Even if I wanted to discuss it, I know I can’t. Not if I don’t want the wrath of Snow and the Gamemakers on my head. “It’s a secret,” I respond, and Caesar and the audience groan in discontent. “But I’ll give you a hint.” A hint, especially the one I’m thinking of, will be sure to get on the Gamemakers’ nerves, but not enough to make them outright gun for me anymore than they already are.

“Yes?” Caesar asks eagerly.

I lean in closer and stage-whisper, “It has something to do with my name.”

Caesar’s blue eyebrows fly up. “Your name?”

“Yes. Like so.” I stand and, catching Cinna’s eye in the audience, twirl. The crowd gasps and cheers as my cloak appears to be set afire and swirls around me. I spin into Caesar’s arms as the buzzer rings.

“ _Ember Abernathy!_ ” Caesar crows, holding up my hand as we receive the audience’s adulation. “ _The girl on fire!_ ”

On fire?

No. I _am_ fire.

I return to my seat, grinning at Ced as he stands. He smiles back and passes me to take my spot across from Caesar.

“Cedric! It’s wonderful to see you, my boy. What did you think of your sister just now?”

“She was very bright,” he says honestly. The audience loves him.

“True, true. And what of her thoughts on you? On why she volunteered?”

Cedric looks at me. “I’m grateful that somebody in the world loves me that much.” The crowd _awwws_ , until he adds, “She’d also miss bossing me around, so there is that as well.” Then they’re laughing again, and the cameras catch me rolling my eyes.

“Well, bossy or not, Ember seems set on having you as the Victor. Tell me, Cedric, what would you do if you won?”

Right off the bat, Ced answers, “Buy all the books.”

“ _All_ the books?”

“All the books.”

“Is there any book in particular you’re looking for?”

Cedric shoots me a faux-annoyed look. The cameras get that, too. “If there were a book on how to get rid of all your sister’s annoying boyfriends, that would be splendid.” God, at this rate all of District 12 is going to think I dated not just Michetto but all three Mellark boys, and Gale, and Thom, and Darius the Peacekeeper. And let’s toss in Finnick Odair while we’re at it.

“Let’s look on the bright side,” Caesar says cheerfully. “If you win, you’ll get your own house as well, and you won’t have to deal with them anymore.”

“Well, yeah, ‘cause Ember would be dead.”

The audience hushes. Maybe they’re only now realizing that, however much they love both Cedric and me, only one of us, max, can come back out in one piece.

Cedric continues, as if he didn’t just announce a truth that the Capitol had been denying to itself. “You know what, everyone knows that Ember wants me to win, but no one knows what I feel. They all think that I’m okay with her dying, if that means I live. But I’m not. I may be _her_ brother, but she’s also _my_ sister. I love her just as much as she loves me, and I want _her_ to be the one that wins. She says she’ll sacrifice herself for me. Guess what? I’d sacrifice myself for her, too. I’m the younger sibling, but why does that mean I automatically get priority to live? She has friends, loads more than I do, who would be rooting wholeheartedly for her if I weren’t in the Games. She has dozens of admirers, hoping she’ll come home so they can tell her how they feel. She and our cousin like to say they’re twins, and they _are_ twins, in all but birth. I don’t have nearly as many people praying for me, and I don’t have a relationship with anybody that’s anywhere as close as what she has with Madge. Ember thinks I should go home, because I’m the baby. I think _she_ should go home, because she has a lot more waiting for her than I do.”

I scream in my head. Oh, Cedric, that’s not true! It will kill Mom and Dad if he dies. If I die, Ced can at least still hold the family together.

Caesar looks anguished. “A pity, such a pity that only one of you can win. Your parents were exceptions, after all.”

Cedric has a queer look in his eyes. It’s one I recognize, because I get it all the time when I’m about to make a really bad decision. “Yeah, it’s a real pity. Twenty-three of us are going to die. Odds are one of them will be me.” He begins to point. “Odds are one of them will be Thierry. Did you know that one of the weapons he designed, for fun during lunch one day, is currently being constructed in District 3? Odds are one of them will be Marilou. She’s the youngest person to ever be accepted to Three’s higher education center for computer programming. Odds are one of them will be Ardi. He’s one of the fastest swimmers and best sailors in Four, and he’s only twelve years old. Odds are one of them will be Jean. She’s a member of the team that personally creates the fabrics used for the First Lady’s wardrobe. Odds are one of them will be Rue. She can fly around in trees like a bird, and she’s the eldest of six. Odds are one of them will be Em—” his voice catches “—and she is the bravest, most beautiful, most amazing person I know.” The buzzer rings, and Ced doesn’t wait for Caesar to dismiss him before taking off. I open my arms, and he runs into them, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist.

Caesar, ever the consummate professional, quickly regains his footing. “Cedric Abernathy! And there you have them, folks! The tributes for the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games!”

The audience applauds, but their cheers are more subdued than usual. I keep a firm grasp on Cedric’s hand as we stand facing the faceless crowd. I see Thresh out of the corner of my eye, and in a flash of inspiration, I reach for his hand. He starts at first and begins to draw back, but then he looks back down at me, nods imperceptibly, and accepts my grip. Then he reaches for Rue.

Our chain has made its way down to District 4 by the time they realize what’s going on, and the stage goes dark. I make sure my grasp on Cedric’s hand is tight as the lot of us stumble offstage and are herded to the elevators. The two of us, Rue, and Thresh end up in the same car together. Rue and Thresh are watching us, she with more intrigue and he with more wariness. We reach the eleventh floor, and they get off—“Goodnight!” Rue calls—then we continue the rest of the way up.

The apartment is empty, and Ced and I wait anxiously until Mom and Dad arrive. They exchange a look. “Alright, Ced,” Mom says briskly, “time to get ready for bed.”

“Em.” Dad gestures with his fingers. “With me.” To the rooftop again. We should set up shop there.

Once we’re there, Dad pulls me so we’re standing right beneath the wind chimes, and his lips are touching my ear when he whispers, “I’m going to make this quick. Don’t ask questions unless you absolutely have to. The rebellion is stirring. Rain is on our side. Sometime during the Games, she’ll hijack the Gamemakers. You’ll know when it happens, and you’ll need to take Ced and get the hell out of the arena. The force fields will be down. She’ll have things stashed in the Cornucopia just for you. They’ll tell you where to go.”

His words punch me in the gut. A million questions instantly pop into mind, but I quash them, per Dad’s demand. Instead, I ask the most important question: “Where are we supposed to go?”

“District 13.”

On my last birthday, I was inducted into Mom and Dad’s super-secret circle of rebels. I have no idea who else is involved besides them. I barely even know any details, just that Thirteen isn’t nearly as extinct as we thought, and there is a growing, underground effort to rise against the Capitol. That’s it. The less I know, they say, the better. The only reason they even told me this much is so that if something happens to them, I won’t be left completely in the dark, because somebody needs to look out for Ced and Summer in their absence.

“Are we supposed to walk there?” The ruins of Thirteen—and the current Thirteen—are in the northeast corner of Panem. The Games arenas are rarely far from the Capitol. I’ve seen maps of the country before, and after some quick math, I figure it would take Ced and me at least a month to hike from the Capitol to District 13. If we’re lucky. We’ll also have to lie low, avoid being seen when we’re near other Districts, hunt, forage, try not to get sick or injured.

At least we won’t die in the arena. We’ll just die outside of it.

“There’s supposed to be a hovercraft to pick you up, and any other willing tributes. But don’t count on it. They’ll only send it if they think they can get in and get out without engaging the Capitol.” Dad clearly doesn’t look happy that rescuing us isn’t Thirteen’s top priority.

“What about you? Mom, Summer? The Capitol will find out about Rain, and they’ll try to get you.”

“We’ll be taken to safety long before you and Ced. Don’t worry about us. You have more than enough on your plate.” Dad back off, signaling that this conversation is over. “Let’s go back down. We want you to get a good night’s sleep.”

I’m almost giddy as we descend the stairs. I won’t have to die! I have a chance! Ced and I just have to survive long enough, and we can get out of the arena...if Rain is telling the truth. If she doesn’t let us down. And that’s not even taking into consideration everything we’ll have to endure after this break-out. I can see why Dad insisted on not telling me until after the interviews. I would’ve seemed way too happy and optimistic if they’d told me before.

I take a quick shower and change into soft pajamas. My last night in a comfortable bed for who knows how long. Mom, Dad, Ced, Summer, and I gather in our parents’ room with mugs of hot chocolate. We don’t talk, just sit there, together. God knows when we’ll be united again. Cedric, I remind myself, doesn’t know what I know. He thinks this is the last time ever. Hopefully when I tell him in a few days, a week, about the rebellion and everything, he’ll handle it well.

We finish the chocolate, but none of us wants to go back to our rooms. So the five of us squeeze into the massive bed provided to Mom and Dad, and as I drift off to sleep, I feel safer than I have in a long, long time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long. Real life can be a pain. Well, I saw Mockingjay Part Dos, and I became inspired to finally get this chapter up. Hope y'all enjoy.

I can almost hear the mockingjay singing to me as Cinna pins it to my jacket. Mom keeps it in a cushioned box at home, and she takes it out for every public appearance and dons it proudly. Especially for the Games, every year, though it’s only recently that I’ve known her pride in it is for its symbolism as defiance against the Capitol, not of her victory. With all that’s happened in the last few days, I didn’t even realize that she’d failed to put it on for this year’s Games. Now it’s mine, until I see her again.

I _will_ see her again. And Dad, and Summer, and even wretched Ash.

(I don’t think about Rain.)

Cinna steps back, looks me up and down, and smiles sadly. “You’re ready.”

I nod shakily—oh God, what if Ced or I don’t survive the Cornucopia before we even have a fighting chance?—and lurch in for a hug. Cinna grants it readily. “I’m going to see you again,” I whisper.

“I know.”

(Does he really know?)

A pleasant voice instructs us tributes to get onto the platforms. Cinna presses a soft kiss on my forehead. “Show them what you’re made of,” he tells me. “Show them your fire.” He helps me into the chute that will raise me into the arena. The glass separates us, and I stare at him, all the blood absent from my face, as I am lifted up, up, up and away.

The sunlight blinds me momentarily. By the time I blink it away, the countdown has started. I immediately look for Cedric. He’s several platforms to the right. Our eyes meet, and he jerks his head toward the forest. Yes. Woods. Good. We can survive there. God bless Katniss and Gale for letting us tag along so often. I nod and take stock of the Cornucopia. It’s full to the brim with supplies, and I even see a bow and quiver at its mouth, undoubtedly for Cedric. But we’re not going anywhere near there. I scan the ground for any supplies close enough for me to grab without diving headfirst into danger. There’s a backpack a few yards away, and a loaf of bread near it. Just those two items, then Ced and I are out of here.

“ _Thirty-six. Thirty-five. Thir_ —” The countdown cuts off.

The other kids murmur in confusion. “What the fuck?” I hear someone mutter, and I realize Cato is not too far down on my left.

The broadcast system screeches, but before I can clamp my hands over my ears, I hear a voice screaming, “ _EMBER, RUN!_ ” before the sound system dies.

Rain?

Overhead, the hologrammed ceiling flickers out of existence to reveal the true sky above, cloudy and gray. I hear pops all around us—the cameras are short-circuiting.

The Games are over before they have even begun.

I don’t know what to think. So, ever the good little soldier, I fall back on my instructions. I stare at the Cornucopia and recall what Dad said about there being “special things” inside for Ced and me. And Rain mentioned how there were really great items all the way in the back. I look down at the grass surrounding my platform. Have the mines been deactivated? I could test it, drop my shoe or something—no, no. I’ll still be blown sky high if the mines are on. A girl dropped her token one year, and that was it for her.

I’m pretty sure the full minute for the countdown has passed. What I don’t know is if the mines are on a timer—in which case I should be fine—or if they have to be deactivated manually by the Gamemakers, in which I would have to rely on Rain remembering to do so. I look up and realize everyone is staring at me.

Right. Rain shouted my name. They all think I know what’s going on. And I guess I do, to a degree. Praying that Ced is not about to be short one sibling, I step off the platform.

Nothing. I’m still alive. I exhale a ragged sigh of relief. Alright, the other tributes can keep gaping at me all they want, but I’m out of here. “Ced,” I call softly, and he instantly obeys, following me as I stride to the Cornucopia.

Of course it’s Cato who’s first to follow suit. “What the fuck just happened, Twelve?” he demands, catching up to me easily and grabbing my shoulder. Rude much. I shake him off.

“The Games have been cancelled. I’m not complaining.” More kids are stepping off their platforms now, wary of the arena around us and of each other.

“You had something to do with this, didn’t you?” Cato accuses.

“Ced, get supplies,” I tell my brother, and he rushes off to scavenge the Cornucopia. “Look, Two, if you’re bummed out that the Games aren’t happening, it’s not my problem. You and the rest of the Careers can hack away at each other all you want, as long as you let the rest of us get away first. I assure you, you four are the only ones in this arena who are disappointed by this change in events.” I turn to help Ced, but Cato seizes my arm.

“The Capitol will fix whatever glitch just occurred,” he states, as confidently as if he declared that the sun will rise in the east. “The Games will continue as planned. And I’m going to kill you first, to make sure you don’t cause any more problems.” I try to pull away, but he squeezes harder, to the point of bruising.

“Leave her alone.” Thresh materializes out of nowhere and pushes Cato away. I rub my arm, trying to cover up my wincing with a fearsome scowl.

“Stay out of this,” Cato spits at him.

Thresh ignores the Career and turns to me. “So what’s the plan, Twelve?” He isn’t the only one waiting for an answer. Almost all the other tributes are gathered around, confused and afraid and just a bit hopeful.

I don’t want to be responsible for this many people. This many children. Ced is already enough for me. But as the most informed person in this arena, I have an obligation to do _something_. “I don’t know if or when the Capitol is going to send anyone in here after us. I have no intention of being here when they come. _My_ plan is to get supplies and make a break for it with Cedric.” I see Rue. Ardi. Thierry and Marilou. Jean. Such young faces. Thresh will take care of Rue, but the others? They’ll be abandoned.

Damn my bleeding heart.

“If anyone wants to join us, you’re welcome to come along if you can keep up,” I announce.

Thresh nods. I guess he’s a good companion to have. He’s big, strong, and can take care of himself. The younger kids, though, will be more liabilities than assets. But I can’t leave them here to fend for themselves. They’d never make it.

“Get what you want and need. We’re leaving as soon as possible,” I say tonelessly before catching up with Cedric. He’s procured two sizeable backpacks and has repacked them with what he deems the most useful supplies. I don’t question his judgment. “Make sure you get that bow,” I murmur before passing him and walking to the rear of the Cornucopia. _The very back_ , Rain said.

The _very_ back.

I peer up into the hollow tail of the Cornucopia. There’s a cleverly hidden ledge that I would never have noticed if I weren’t looking for something out of place. I stack some large containers so I can climb up and see what’s on the ledge.

Oh, boy. That’s a bigger box than I expected. Somehow, I heave it down and place it on the floor. I try to open it, but it’s locked. Really? _Really?_ Frustrated, I run my hand through my hair, staring at the tiny, pin-sized keyhole that’s keeping me from a likely treasure trove. Where on Earth does Rain expect me to find a key—

Pin-sized. My pin. She _personally_ approved it. I unclasp it quickly to take a closer look, and I find two things out of the ordinary. First is the miniscule set of numbers etched onto the back, which I make a note to ask Ced about later. Second, and more pertinent, is the slight disfiguration of the arrow that the mockingjay is clutching. I’ve spent so many hours admiring Mom’s pin that I can instantly tell there’s something off about it. The tip of the arrow has been reshaped.

“Please, please, please,” I breathe as I position the pin before the keyhole. It slides in, and I hear a _click._ I sigh in relief and open the box. “Holy shit.” Guns. There are guns in the box. And ammunition. And grenades. What looks like a GPS unit. A paper map. Some arrows.

But _guns._ How the hell did Rain pull this off? How did she sneak behind all the other Gamemakers’ backs? Or, well...not all of them, necessarily. She’d only need to get past the head Gamemaker, and she’s pretty tight with him.

_Guns?_ I don’t even know how to use one. They’re never provided in the Games, so Mom and Dad never bothered to train us with them. It would also have been extremely difficult for them to get their hands on one, considering arms are tightly regulated. What was Rain thinking? Was she blindly hoping that I could handle one, or that Ced could figure it out? Unfortunately, she didn’t provide an instruction manual for him to study.

I pick up one of the arrows and examine it. It looks like a normal arrow—normal for the Capitol, not the ones we have at home. Sleek, black, made of metal or polymer or something unnatural. Near the fletching is a small red symbol. I squint. Fire.

Wait, what? Fire arrows? Holy crap, Rain is a miracle worker. I examine the other arrows, and there ends up only being one other type besides fire arrows. The other type has a little yellow symbol. I try to decipher it, and I just figure out that it means “explosive” when someone outside shouts, “There’s a hovercraft coming!”

Fuck. Fuckityfuckfuck. Ced and I were supposed to be hightailing it for the edge of the arena by now. Arrow still in hand, I race to the mouth of the Cornucopia, where Cedric and a few others are cowering. A black mass in the distance is rapidly approaching.

“They’re probably picking us up so we can restart the Games properly,” I hear someone, Glimmer, saying off to the side. _I wouldn’t bet money on that, my friend._

“Em,” Ced whispers hoarsely, “that’s not a passenger hovercraft. That’s military.”

A military hovercraft. That means guns. And it doesn’t look anywhere near big enough to take all twenty-four of us on board.

“TAKE COVER!” I yell, and almost everyone scrambles to do as I say. Some push their way into the Cornucopia. Others scatter for the forest. Only the four Careers remain obstinately in the open. Fine. Good riddance.

The hovercraft gets closer, and suddenly Cato is barking at the other Careers what Ced just told me. “That’s a military hovercraft!” And he runs into the Cornucopia as well. Clove, Marvel, and Glimmer looked stunned for half a second before racing after their alpha. Just in time, too. The craft opens fire. People scream, but thankfully they sound like screams of fright, not pain.

There’s no way we can escape with that hovercraft shooting at us. My brain scrambles for an idea to get us out of here.

“Looks like you were right, Twelve,” Cato grouses from beside me.

“You’re lucky I’m not the type to say ‘I told you so,’” I retort off-handedly, still trying to come up with a plan.

“Doubt that,” I hear him mutter.

I realize I’m still clutching the arrow. “Ced, the bow!”

“What?” Cedric looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Em, we have more important things—”

I hold up the arrow. “This is an explosive arrow. If I can shoot this at the hovercraft—”

Ced’s eyes light up. “It blows up? Cool! Got it!” He snatches the arrow out of my hand and inches toward the edge of the Cornucopia, just as the hovercraft spits out another hail of gunfire.

“No, Cedric! I meant for _me_ to do it.”

Cedric holds the bow out of reach when I try to grab it. “Em, no offense, but you kinda suck at shooting.” He scoots out again. The hovercraft is circling back around for another go. In a flash, he’s raced out of the safety of the Cornucopia. I choke out his name in horror as he positions himself in the middle of the grassy lawn. Oh, God, I can’t watch. Part of me is screaming at me to run out there after him, but another part of me tells me it’s too late to pull him back to safety. He won’t beat the hovercraft’s bullets back into the Cornucopia.

Ced stands tall as he nocks the bow and aims. What if he misses? I should have given him more arrows! I bite down on my knuckle, gazing helplessly as the hovercraft’s pilots undoubtedly home in on him and cackle in delight. “Ced, Ced, Ced,” I whisper like a prayer.

The arrow whistles through the air, like the miniature torpedo it is. I’m not the only one watching with bated breath as it sails toward the hovercraft.

I cover my eyes as it explodes—or the wing does, at least. But if you tear the wing off a bird or insect or, you know, a _hovercraft,_ it can’t fly anymore. And the rest of the body looks severely damaged as it spirals into the wheat field with a booming crash. As soon as it’s down, I sprint toward Cedric, who’s jumping up and down and looking way too pleased with himself.

I punch his shoulder. “Don’t ever do that again!” Then I pull him close, into a strangling hug.

“But someone had to!”

“Then you should have let me shoot.”

“Ha! You would’ve missed. I hit it,” Cedric boasts.

“Should’ve gone for the hull.” We twist around to see Cato. “The pilots may have survived. We need to make sure they’re taken care of.”

I tighten my arms around Ced. “Oh, so now you’re against the Capitol?”

“I’m against whoever tries to kill me,” Cato responds, looking ticked off. Still, I don’t trust him. A voice that sounds uncannily like Dad’s hisses in my mind that the Career is probably feigning it all, that everything is going to go south the minute I turn my back on him.

“I repeat: so _now_ you’re against the Capitol?” I nudge Ced, and we start back towards the Cornucopia. “If you want to ‘take care’ of them, then do it, Two. Just don’t involve me. Killing’s your job, not mine.”

“You’re going to regret not checking,” he warns.

“I’ll try not to let it stop me from sleeping at night.” I pick up one of the packs that Ced set aside and swing it onto my back. It’s heavy, but that just means it’s full of supplies, and we’ll need plenty of them. There’s no way we can carry all the supplies in the Cornucopia, even with all twenty-four of us, not to mention the weapons. Maybe the kids from Six, the transportation District, could construct a cart or something given time, but time is a resource we don’t have. Sooner or later, the Capitol is going to realize the hovercraft isn’t responding, and they’ll send out another one to finish the job.

“It’s a shame we’ll have to leave so much behind.” It’s as if Thresh can read my mind.

“We have no choice.”

“You realize you and Cedric are packing for two?”

I eye him strangely. “Ced plus me equals two, so yes.”

Thresh elaborates. “If we’re traveling as a group, we need to pack as a group. For example, tents. A few would be useful, but who’s going to give up space in their packs for one?”

I see. I nod slowly. “We need to coordinate better.”

The boy from Six is eavesdropping, and he chimes in, “Why don’t we make a sled?”

“A sled?”

“A pallet, really. It won’t take too much time. Some planks, some ropes.” He nods at his District partner. “Franzi and I could work some magic. We’ll be able to take a lot more stuff this way.”

I like the idea of more supplies. And of it not taking too long. “We don’t have time to cut down trees for you.”

“What about branches and saplings?” The girl from Seven steps forward. “Bartel and I can take care of those pretty fast.” They all look to me for approval.

I don’t want to linger here longer than we have to. But I also don’t want to run out of supplies before we’re halfway to Thirteen. A bit of extra time here could mean the difference between life and death somewhere down the road. Another of Dad’s many lessons: never say no to more supplies. Besides, if another hovercraft approaches, Ced can shoot it down again, I assure myself. “Alright, but be quick about it. Your names?”

“Lothar,” the boy from Six says.

“Susanna,” Seven adds.

I raise my voice so that all the other tributes hovering nearby can hear. “We’re going to make a sled really fast, so we can take as many supplies as possible. Susanna and Bartel are cutting branches and saplings. Grab some axes if you can help them. Lothar and Franzi will build the sled. Give them a hand with whatever they need. Everyone else, fill the packs with food, medicine, water, matches, ropes, everything we absolutely need.”

“Iodine,” the boy from Nine pipes up. “We’ll want to purify our water.

I nod at him. “Good idea. Thanks…?”

“Jaxon.”

“Thanks, Jaxon. And Jean, can you be the lookout for any more hovercrafts, or anyone approaching?”

Glimmer steps forward, arms crossed. “Why are you in charge, Twelve?”

Why must we fight? We can’t we all just get along, or at least tolerate each other? Life is hard enough as it is. “If you want to do something else, go ahead. Take what you need and go your own way. Try to make it back to District One, see if they’ll take you back now that we’re all fugitives.”

“Fugitives?” someone repeats.

I try to explain it as patiently as I can. “If a Peacekeeper or anyone sympathetic to the Capitol catches any of us, we’re either dead or incapacitated. They sent that hovercraft to annihilate us for a reason. They don’t want us anymore, so they’re going to try to get rid of us.”

“So if not back home,” Thresh rumbles, “where are we going?”

I remember the GPS, and I go to the back of the Cornucopia to the box. My pin is still stuck in the keyhole. I take it out and show it to Ced. “Do you know what these numbers are?”

He nods. “Coordinates.”

Coordinates. To Thirteen. They must be. I take out the GPS. “Can you plug them in here?”

“Duh.” He gets to work.

I lug the box out into the open. The tributes who haven’t gone to help cut wood stare at the contents. “There is a rebellion,” I tell them. “It’s been growing for many years. I don’t know much about it. I was kept in the dark for most of my life. But I do know that the powerhouse behind the rebellion is District 13.”

Clove snorts. “Thirteen doesn’t exist anymore, Abernathy.”

“It does exist, and that’s where I’m heading. If you don’t believe me, whatever. You don’t have to come with me. I’m not forcing anyone to go. You’re all welcome to take your own supplies and try your luck returning to your home Districts. You’re also all welcome to come with Cedric and me to District 13, which may be the only place in Panem that will accept us.” I look pointedly at the Careers. “ _Any_ of us _._ ”

“I got it!” Cedric rushes forward and thrusts the GPS in my face, along with my pin. I take both. There’s a blinking dot in what I recognize as the northeast corner of Panem.

“How long do you think it’ll take us to get there?” I ask him.

“All of us?” Cedric chews on his lip and does some math. “Big group, sled of supplies, circling around the Districts,” he mutters to himself. “Two months?”

“You want us to wander around in the wild for two months?” Marvel demands.

“It’s not wandering if you know where you’re going.” I wave the GPS. “Again, I’m not forcing you to come with.” I look down at Cedric. “Can you draw a path on the map in the bin, just in case we can’t use the GPS anymore?”

“Sure.” He picks up the map, then pauses. “I don’t suppose anyone has a pen.”

“I can help,” Rue offers. “I saw a patch of berries you can use as ink. All we need is a stick.” She takes his hand and tugs him along.

I turn around to see Cato hefting one of the guns. “Hey, put that down!”

He raises an eyebrow. “You want all the guns for yourself?” I hesitate. “Do you even know how to use one?”

“No,” I admit reluctantly.

“Well, I do. So I think I’m one of the best people to be handling one of these.” He kneels beside the box and examines the other weapons.

I frown. “How do you know how to use one?”

“I’m from Two.” Cato looks up at me. “The Academy that trains Careers is the same one that trains Peacekeepers. Guns are one of many weapons we learn how to use.”

Indeed, Clove comes over and selects some small pistols. “Ah, my favorites.”

“I thought you preferred knives?” I ask, despite myself.

“I do,” she states. “But you don’t bring a knife to a firefight. Even when you’re as good as me.”

“I can take one,” someone says quietly. Thierry.

“You?” Cato says dubiously.

“I design weapons,” Thierry says defensively. “Guns are weapons.”

“Have you ever actually used one?”

“I’ve tested a few that I made, yeah.”

“Fine.” Cato stands. “Take your pick.” Two, I notice, has selected a rifle and two handguns, _and_ he has a sword. Geeze. Clove is similarly armed, with pistols and knives tucked in her boots, pockets, sleeves, and probably inside her jacket. Marvel and Glimmer, though, aren’t bothering with the guns. They’re sticking with good old-fashioned spears and whatnot. I guess One doesn’t get exactly the same weapons training as Two.

Which reminds me, I should find some weapons for myself. I take stock of the normal weapons provided, and of what’s already been claimed. Susanna and Bartel, from Seven, are of course going to get the axes. Ardi and his District partner have scooped up the tridents, and what looks like a harpoon. Marvel is hogging the spears, but considering how deadly he is with them, I let him. Thresh got his hands on a sickle and a scythe. There are a few maces, but I have little experience with them.

Batons? Yes. I take one. According to Dad, the baton is the second-best weapon, after your own body. You can make one out of something in most arenas. A tree branch, an icicle, part of a different weapon. We played baseball often at home, and I like to think hitting home runs was one of Dad’s ways of training us. I also pocket a few knives, since I’m fairly handy with them. I don’t bother with the swords or machetes; I’m not weak, but I don’t have the blatant muscle like Cato to lug one around with me. I’m pretty sure I’ve catalogued all the weapons, so I return to Rain’s box. Cedric has the only bow, so I add the special arrows to his quiver, alongside the normal ones. I’ll need to make sure he remembers to check which is which before he uses them.

Rain’s box is now empty, except for the grenades, which I entrust to Thierry after I ask if he knows what to do with them. The kid may only be fourteen, but if he’s an expert, he’s an expert. However, the bin isn’t as empty as I expect it to be. My breath catches at the sight of the weapon hidden beneath everything else. Do my eyes deceive me? I pick up the blowgun. My mother’s weapon. Blowguns aren’t consistently provided in the Games, but since one was so useful to my parents during their Games, they made sure that I knew how to use one.

I’m pretty good with it.

The blowgun isn’t loaded, but there are a few boxes filled with darts, helpfully labeled. Needle point. Stun. Poisonous. Hallelujah. Mine. I load the blowgun with some needle point darts and put the remaining boxes in my pack.

Lothar and Franzi are putting the finishing touches on the sled. Damn, they’re fast. We begin to load the big supplies: tents, sleeping bags, crates of food, water jugs. The two from Six designed the sled so that, provided the ground is relatively smooth, it shouldn’t be too hard to pull it along.

Cedric tugs on my sleeve, back from berry-hunting with Rue. “Em,” he whispers, “we still have the trackers in our arms.”

I stiffen. He’s right. But the only way for us to get them out is to cut them out, and I don’t want to linger at the Cornucopia for too long. Then again, it won’t be hard for anyone looking for us to just follow our signals. “Is there any chance of them fizzing out when we leave the arena?”

“I doubt it,” Ced replies, “and they’ll stay powered for several weeks.”

Damn it all. Do we cut them out now or later? And we’ll have to take the time to sterilize the knives and bandage the wounds afterwards so that they don’t get infected.

“Problem?”

I eye Cato warily. I don’t trust him and the other Careers at all. Of all the tributes, they’re most likely to turn on the rest of us. Some of them might still even be sympathetic to the Capitol, despite the friendly show of hovercraft artillery fire a few moments ago. Cato sees the look on my face and rolls his eyes.

“Twelve, I told you. I don’t side with anyone who’s trying to kill me, and the Capitol is fucking trying to kill me. To kill all of us.” I’m still skeptical. “Besides, we’re _all_ a pack now. You don’t turn on the pack.”

“Unless it’s final eight?” I say dryly.

He smirks. “If we all work together, hopefully we’ll maintain a final twenty-four.”

I must be dreaming. Working together. With Careers. Dad would tell me I’d be crazy for trusting him. Also, I simply don’t like him.

Cato sees my reluctance and tries again. “Come on, Twelve. If I want to kill you, I’ll tell you I want to kill you.”

“You have told me that you want to kill me,” I answer dryly.

“Well, I don’t want to kill you _anymore._ ”

“You’ve also manhandled me, left bruises, and threatened to sexually assault me.”

Cato rubs his temples. “I don’t suppose a sincere apology will do it?”

“Keep dreaming, Two.”

He sighs. “Look, Abernathy. _Ember._ I get it. You see me as a threat, and you have every reason to think that. But I’m not some muttation product that’s designed to worship every facet of the Capitol. Contrary to what you may think, I’m not brainless. I know trying to run to the Capitol is less likely to get me a warm welcome and more likely a chest riddled with bullet holes. Besides, I’m just as human as you, and I have just as much a desire to survive as you. Sticking with you is my best chance to do that, even with a dozen useless kids hanging on. Allying with you gives me much better odds of getting through this than betraying you would.”

I bite my lip. I don’t know if I should believe him. What would Dad say? _Shank him and good riddance._

Hm. Maybe Mom? _There’s trust, and there’s_ trust. _Just because you’re working with him doesn’t mean you’re friends. As long as you’re useful to him, and he’s useful to you, both sides are benefiting from this relationship. Let him help, but don’t turn your back on him._

“Fine,” I finally concede. “We can be allies. If you must know, Ced brought up the fact that we all still have trackers in our arms.”

Cato looks at his own arm speculatively. “Why don’t we ask the nerds from Three if they can do anything about it?”

That...is a surprisingly good idea. I can’t believe Ced and I didn’t think of it. “Sure. Yeah. That works.” I head to Thierry and Marilou, who are stacking supplies. Cato follows.

Thierry frowns as I describe our dilemma. “Trackers aren’t weapons. Not my specialty.”

Marilou, however, looks thoughtful. “I would say short-circuit them, but that’s difficult, since they’re embedded in our skin. They’re probably waterproof, anyway. I didn’t get a good look at them when they were injected, so I’m not sure if we could physically block the signal, or create another radio signal to jam them. We could try, but no guarantees.”

“So the only foolproof way is to cut them out?” I say grimly. She nods. “Damn,” I mutter under my breath. “This is going to be fun.”

“We should get it over with,” Cato tells me. “We’ll have to do it sooner or later.”

“Yeah.” There’s been no sign of another hovercraft. Maybe we can spare the time. “When everything’s ready to go, we’ll gather everyone around.”

He suggests, “Clove should cut them out.” I stare at him incredulously. “She’s the best with knives. She knows anatomy. She isn’t squeamish. She won’t kill them.”

Not so sure about the last bit. If only I could trust Clove’s sanity, I would be more comfortable with this idea. But he’s right. I would probably end up giving everyone scars if I tried. “Fine. Let’s ask her.”

Clove pauses packing supplies and listens silently to my request. She shrugs apathetically. “Sure. Shouldn’t take too long. But someone else will have to bandage them up, and I need a clean knife for each person, unless you want us all to die of a blood infection.”

Jaxon and his District partner set to heating knives and ensuring there’s a ready supply of clean blades while I explain the situation to everyone else. Most of the tributes are understandably wary of letting Clove come at them with a knife. Great. I’ll need to set an example. “I’ll go first,” I offer, trying not to let my own apprehension bleed through.

Thankfully, Clove looks impassive rather than sadistic as I seat myself in front of her. Without hesitation, she digs the tip of her knife into my forearm, where the tracker is somewhat visible. I bite down on my tongue to avoid hissing from the pain. Before I know it, the small metal orb is out and on the grass, with a few fleshy strands still stuck to it. There isn’t much blood at all, and I expect it’ll stop bleeding in less than a minute. I spray my arm with disinfectant and a liquid bandage, then slap a band-aid on top for good measure. I stand and smile at everyone else. “Next?”

Thresh lumbers forward, and Jaxon passes Clove a new knife, taking the one she used on me to clean. From that point on, the process goes smoothly: Clove cuts, I bandage, Jaxon and Skylar clean. Until it’s Jean’s turn.

“I don’t want to!” she wails.

Clove rolls her eyes. “Twelve, you deal with this.”

I shudder to think what Clove would’ve said to Jean in “comfort.” _I could be doing much worse to you than this. You’re lucky I’m not carving out your throat._ I tug Jean down so she’s sitting beside me. “Jean, it’ll be over in a few seconds. You saw how quick Clove was with everyone else. It doesn’t even hurt all that much.”

She shakes her head vehemently. I try not to hang my head in despair. Jean is the very last one. Even Jaxon and Skylar have gone. Everyone is raring to leave. I’m raring to leave.

Someone crouches beside me. Cato looks Jean in the eye. She visibly shrinks away from him. I worry that he’s going to threaten her with being left behind if she doesn’t go through with this—but maybe that tactic will work? I’m getting desperate. Instead, he says, “Look, Eight, just a few hours ago, you were expecting much scarier and more painful things in the arena, weren’t you?”

Jean nods carefully.

“What’s a little prick on your arm compared to all the things that could have happened if the Games had proceeded as normal? Nothing. It doesn’t hurt much more than the injection that put the tracker in your arm in the first place. It’s not like we’re cutting off your arm—which is something that may have happened to you in the Games. So consider yourself lucky that this is the worst of it.”

Well...that wasn’t exactly comforting. But it’s not like I expected anything different.

Jean continues to stare at Cato. Then slowly, she extends her arm to Clove. Before the younger girl can change her mind, the Career takes it and with a few quick slices, the tracker joins the pile on the grass. Jean sniffles, but she doesn’t cry. I spray the disinfectant and liquid bandage. “There’s my girl.” I smile at her as I put on the band-aid, and she manages a watery smile back before clambering her feet.

“Well, that was fun,” Clove says wryly, standing.

I nod at her. “Thank you, Clove.”

“Don’t thank me. I needed to quench my daily dose of bloodthirstiness somehow.” She walks off to clean the knife in her hand.

I start to get to my feet and find a hand before my face. I gape at it for a few seconds before realizing what it’s for. Shrugging off the vestiges of doubt, I take it, and Cato hauls me up. “And thanks to you, too, for getting Jean to acquiesce so quickly.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for. I want to get out of here as much as you do.” He nudges the pile of mildly bloody trackers with the toe of his shoe. “Are we going to do anything about these?”

“No. We don’t have time. Besides, we can leave them as a decoy. The Capitol will think we’re still here, until they send someone to check.”

Cedric bounces over, GPS in hand. “Are we leaving now?”

“Yup.” I ruffle his hair. “Which direction are we headed?” He points toward the woods.

We decide that those who are physically capable will take turns pushing and pulling the sled. Duff from Eight and Una from Four are pushing now, while Lothar and Franzi pull. The boy from Ten, Vidal, tried to help, but his crippled foot is a problem.

“You focus on yourself,” I tell him, handing him one of the unused branches so he can have a walking stick.

Cato efficiently coordinates everyone and proves his usefulness. The supply sled goes toward the back, so we can abandon it quickly if need be. The youngest kids are herded right in front of the sled, in the middle of the group, and they’re responsible for clearing obstacles out of the sled’s path. Everyone else takes up defensive positions at the sides, rear, and front. I’m at the head, as is Cedric, who insists he’s the best with the GPS. I don’t doubt him. Cato is with us at the front of the pack as well.

Finally, we’re on the move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am not an engineer, so please suspend any disbelief regarding the construction of the sled. Thanky.
> 
> Please feed the starving author with comments (or private messages, if you're more comfortable with them). :3 When there's feedback, I work faster. When there isn't feedback...well, there was over a three-month gap between this chapter and the previous one. Orz
> 
> Also, I do love to interact with readers/fellow HG fans, so you can pretty much guarantee that I'll respond to meaningful and/or constructive comments. :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can...Can it be? Has it actually been less than a month between updates? Why, yes! It has been only 10 days since the last chapter! (As opposed to the 100+ days between Ch. 5 and 6...) I’ve been reaching out to followers for Sweetest Mockery on FF.net, and their responses, combined with the surge in reviews last chapter, have made this writer deliriously happy. Hence, my accelerated updating speed. I would also like to thank Little_Miss_Mayhem for leaving a wonderfully encouraging comment here. Please see additional notes at the end of the chapter!
> 
> You guys will also get your first non-Ember POV today. Whoo~
> 
> And in case you’re interested, you can see some manipulated photographs depicting the Abernathy family members on my Tumblr, at http://presidenthades.tumblr.com/post/134360260984/the-sweetest-mockery-abernathy-family-pics. 
> 
> WARNING: Gore and torture be ahead.

Marvel jogs up from the rear to the front. “We’re being followed,” he says lowly to Cato.

Cato keeps walking beside me, but he gives Marvel his due attention. “How many?”

“I counted two. Could be more.”

“Capitol?”

“Yeah. Probably from the hovercraft that Baby Abernathy shot down.”

Cato shoots me a look, as if saying, _you see?_ I glower right back at him. I didn’t say anything to him about his misplaced faith in the Capitol, did I? “Armed?” Cato inquires.

“I would bet on it.”

“Right.” Cato looks down at me. “Keep moving forward, like there’s nothing wrong. We don’t want to tip off whoever’s following us. If you hear gunfire, run. Pass on the message, but don’t let anyone panic.”

I nod stiffly. He was right. We should have looked for survivors. Been the hunters instead of the hunted that we are now. Cato and Marvel head to the rear, and I turn to Thierry behind me. “I need your help. Tell the others…” 

* * *

Cato collects Clove on his and Marvel’s way back. He considers notifying Glimmer but decides against it. If the people on their tails have guns, then they can’t afford to get too close. The only long-distance fighting that Glimmer good at is with the bow, and even then she’s so-so. Besides, the bow is with Abernathy Jr. He can deal with any hurt feelings later. What’s important now is taking care of the threat.

Thresh is bringing up the rear, looking tense. “Anything happen?” Cato asks.

“Still following at a distance,” Thresh reports. “They haven’t tried anything yet.”

Cato is willing to bet that there can’t be many more than three people following them. They know the tributes outnumber them, so they’re most likely waiting for an opportunity to ambush them, probably when they all take a break or make camp.

Time to turn the ambush around.

“Thresh, stay here and keep an eye on the back. The three of us will split, go a bit further up the pack so our pursuers can’t see what we’re up to, then break off from the group to hide in the trees. As soon as we can see all the pursuers, we take them out. Clove, on the right. Marvel, we’re on the left.”

“Finally, something to do,” Clove enthuses before heading up.

“Not going for an open kill?” Marvel asks as they stride forward.

“They have guns.”

Marvel nods at Cato’s rifle and handguns. “So do you. And last I checked, spears are long-distance.”

“Bullets are faster. Not risking it. We ambush them before they can ambush us.”

Marvel shrugs. “Okay.”

“Leave one guy so he’s not mortally wounded. I want to ask him a few questions before finishing him.”

Once they’re ahead of the gaggle of twelve and thirteen-year-olds, they veer sharply away. Neither bothers to climb a tree, instead preferring to crouch in the undergrowth. It takes a bit of time for the rear half of the pack to pass, and Marvel apparently sees the need to fill the silence with inane, distracting conversation.

“So,” Marvel says, “Girl on Fire.”

Cato tries not to groan. “What are you on about?”

“She’s pretty hot. And not just because of the fire.”

Marvel’s comment rubs Cato the wrong way. “Do you think you can rein it in until _after_ we get these Peacekeepers?” he hisses with no small amount of annoyance.

“Well, I’m just wondering, if you’re not going to go for her…” Cato growls, and Marvel snickers. “I kid, I kid. Besides, I prefer redheads.”

Any other time, Cato would gladly have a conversation about the attractiveness of Ember Abernathy. (Because yes, he does find her very attractive. Not the prettiest girl he’s ever seen—Glimmer is more gorgeous by far—but she has a spark, no pun intended, that one rarely sees in someone from the outer Districts.) But that time is not now, when they’re trying to _quietly_ set up an ambush for the Peacekeepers tailing them. He knows Marvel isn’t as stupid as he pretends to be, but sometimes Cato wonders.

Anyway, Cato isn’t sure if he’ll stick with the group the entire way. District 2 is close to the Capitol, and if they really are heading to this mythical Thirteen (which, at the rate they’re going, he doubts they will reach alive, considering how many mouths there are to feed and kids who are more of a hindrance than anything), then Two will be along the route. Depending on the sort of welcome he can reasonably expect to find, he might just head home.

He doesn’t forget what Ember Abernathy said about them all being fugitives now. He knows Two takes these things very seriously. If the Capitol tells Two that the tributes are fugitives, then Two will see them as fugitives. If the Capitol tells Two to kill them on sight, then Two will kill them on sight. If the Capitol tells Two that the sky is plaid, then Two will teach schoolchildren the sky is plaid.

But Cato has good reason to be confident in a safe arrival. Although Two has a mayor, Cato’s father pretty much runs the District. He won his Games years before Cato was born, and as the most respected, most cunning, and still deadliest Victor in District 2, it’s his father who everyone knows is really in charge. His father is the one who keeps the Academy running, and the high number of Victors from Two in recent years is a great indication of how good he is at his job. Cato is sure if his father tells the Capitol that his son has no ties with the rebellion (which is the truth) and doesn’t know where the other tributes are going (not so much the truth), the Capitol will take heed if they don’t want to lose their most loyal District.

He hears solitary footsteps. The pack is far ahead now. He and Marvel exchange glances. Two Peacekeepers come into view, their white uniforms not helping them blend in at all. Cato doesn’t see any more of them, so he nods. Marvel’s spear pierces one man’s thigh, while Clove’s knife finds a new home in the other’s skull.

Cato lunges forward and tackles the living man before he can scream or retaliate. Instantly, the tip of one of his knives is at the Peacekeeper’s throat. “How many of you are there?”

The Peacekeeper spits at him. Cato presses his knife down, enough to draw blood. “Just us. We were the only survivors.”

“What were you planning on doing?”

“Why do you need to know?” the man snarls. “You’ve already got us.”

“So I know how painful your death needs to be. Well?” The man is uncooperative. Cato brings in reinforcements. “Clove, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“My pleasure.” His District partner whips out a dagger and slices off the man’s pointer finger. Cato covers the Peacekeeper’s mouth so his scream is muffled, and only until it looks like the pain has subsided does he remove his hand.

“We were going to kill you all while you slept,” the man hisses. “Take the ones from Twelve as hostages.”

Cato frowns. “If you want them alive, why did you try to gun us all down?”

“Thought they’d be the first to run for cover. Didn’t think they’d be stupid enough to hang around the Cornucopia. Original plan was to eliminate the rest of you before hunting them down.”

“You said they’re supposed to be hostages. Hostages for whom?”

The man hesitates. Clove takes off a middle finger. “The rebels,” the man chokes out after silently weeping. “District 13. Their parents escaped with some other mentors.”

So Ember Abernathy was telling the truth. “Did the Capitol send you?”

“Obviously.” Without any instruction from Cato, Clove decides to remove the ring finger for the man’s cheek.

“Is anyone else being sent after us?”

The man groans. “They will be when they realize we’re not coming back.”

“How long will that be?”

“Whenever they next check up on us. Few minutes, few hours. They expected us to find the Abernathys by sundown.”

Sundown. It’s early afternoon. The arenas vary in size, but Cato doesn’t think this one is small enough for them to make it to the edge by sunset. Then he spots the radio strapped to the Peacekeeper’s arm. “Have you radioed anyone since the crash?”

The man is stubbornly silent at first, but when Clove makes to chop off his pinky, he quickly replies, “No, no. We didn’t want to tell them anything until we had good news.” Clove presses down her knife. “I’m telling the truth, I swear!”

Cato will take it. “Right. Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to take that radio and tell HQ, your boss, whoever’s on the other end, that it’s taking longer than expected to find your targets. You’ll need at least another day. There is no need for backup. If they ask about the hovercraft, you tell them it malfunctioned and crashed, and that’s why you need more time. Straightforward answers only. Don’t bother with code-speak. I used to train to be a Peacekeeper, I know all the codewords.”

“You’re from Two?” the man rasps. “You should be helping us! Not these other District runts!”

Cato laughs, without humor. “The thing is, these ‘District runts’ weren’t the ones trying to gun me down earlier.”

“If you help me now, you’ll be rewarded. All three of you.”

Cato sneers. “I can see your badge on your chest. You’re a cadet. You have no grounds whatsoever to promise such things.”

“I’ll tell my commander—”

“You’ll tell your commander everything I just told you. Be a good boy, and your death will be painless, with whatever digits you have left still attached. Now.” Cato rips the radio from the man’s arm and holds it out to him. “Do you need me to repeat anything?”

The Peacekeeper relays everything Cato instructed. The threat of his blade at his throat and Clove’s knife at his remaining fingers deter him from trying anything funny. Cato ensures that only what must be said is said, so that the Peacekeeper can’t slip any codewords they may have at the Capitol. Whoever’s on the other end—surely an underling—suspects nothing at all and readily grants more time to hunt down the tributes.

When the conversation ends, Cato hands the radio to Marvel. “Destroy this, and the one on the other Peacekeeper.” He soons hears distinct crunching sounds.

“Are you going to kill me yet?” the Peacekeeper asks bitterly.

“Soon. Is there any more information you’d like to volunteer?” Cato thinks about the voice who shouted for Ember Abernathy to run. “Know anything about what’s happening with the Gamemakers?”

“Utter chaos. They’re panicking. Someone’s been arrested. Don’t know who.”

“What of the District 2 mentors?”

“I’ve heard nothing.”

Cato doesn’t doubt it. Brutus and Enobaria aren’t the type to go against the Capitol. “Clove, Marvel, anything you want to ask?”

“Don’t care about my mentors that much,” Marvel says.

“Are you sure I can’t cut off the pinky?”

“No, Clove. I promised no more, and I keep my word.” Cato stares the Peacekeeper in the eye. “How about you? Any last words?”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re not my type.” Cato drives in his knife. Blood spatters his face and shirt.

Clove rises, stretching. “That was fun. Sure there aren’t any more out here?”

“We weren’t attacked while interviewing him, so yes, I’m sure.” Cato stands. He claims the dead Peacekeepers’ guns and cleans his knife on the uniform of the one he questioned. “Clove, let Thresh know the problem has been taken care of.” The pack is a long ways away, but they’ll have no problem catching up.

Clove goes, and Cato and Marvel quickly check the Peacekeepers’ persons for anything of use. Some cuffs and their keys—if they encounter anyone on the road, once they exit the arena, they may need to incapacitate without killing. Flashlights and batteries, can’t have too many of those. A pen on the one Clove killed—Abernathy Jr. will appreciate it. A pocketknife. Wallets. Both have some cash inside. Again, if they encounter anyone on the road, and it’s a _positive_ interaction, they might need something to barter with. Cash is very good for that. Done scavenging, he and Marvel drag the bodies into the bushes, in case backup is sent before the pack is out of the arena. They don’t want a trail of corpses broadcasting their path.

Cato and Marvel have long legs, so it doesn’t take long for them to catch up. Marvel slips back into the rear of the pack with Thresh, who nods at them but says nothing. Cato continues on to the front, where the Abernathys are still leading the group. “Anything happen here while I was gone?”

“No. Everyone was tense until Clove came—” Ember Abernathy stares at him, mildly horrified.

“What?”

“You’ve got…” She gestures. “Blood. All over your face.”

Fuck. He forgot about that. Cato wipes his face with his sleeve.

“Guess you took care of our followers,” she says quietly.

Cato’s hackles rise. If she tries to condemn him for doing what was necessary to keep everyone safe...

“Thank you,” she adds sincerely.

He blinks in surprise. Then he nods curtly in response, and they continue to walk in silence. 

* * *

Shortly before sunset, we make camp. I’m not sure how close we are to the edge of the arena now, but we can’t travel in the dark. I’m worried about what the Gamemakers may have planted in the woods for us. Mutts are nothing to take lightly.

Cato doesn’t object when Thierry builds a fire, so I take that to mean we don’t need to worry about causing undue attention. Speaking of whom, I need to ask Cato what happened today. He was gone an awfully long time, which I take to mean he had an opportunity to “ask” our pursuers a few questions.

I’m not sure I want to know how he asked those questions.

Since the weather isn’t being manipulated by the Gamemakers, the air is pleasantly warm. The majority of us agree that tents aren’t necessary, so we just lay out sleeping bags. Ced has gone off to shoot some squirrels or rabbits so we don’t have to dig into our supplies yet. Marvel went with him to make sure he’s okay. I don’t know when I began trusting a Career with my brother’s safety, but I do. It’s unnerving.

Clove’s also tagged along with them to see if she can cut down any animals with her knives. Now, I don’t trust _her_ with Ced just yet.

Rue, Thresh, and a small team of other kids are foraging. Jaxon and Skylar have fetched water from the nearby stream and are boiling it. Ardi and Una are fishing. I have my blowgun, so I could still catch up with the hunting group, but I think we’re good on food for now. The more pressing need is for me to talk to Cato.

I hear him and Glimmer arguing downstream, away from everyone else. “You should’ve asked me to come with you!”

“Clearly, we were fine without you. Now lay off, Glimmer.”

“I was stuck babysitting the brats while you three had fun! That’s not fair.”

“Fucking deal with it.”

I clear my throat. They whirl around. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” Glimmer snaps.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to continue this later. I need to talk to Cato.”

Glimmer opens her mouth to retort, but Cato cuts her off. “Go back to camp, Glimmer. Do something useful for once.” The gorgeous blonde looks wounded and incensed as she stalks away.

I fold my arms and look up at Cato. “That wasn’t nice.”

“Are you seriously complaining?”

“Glimmer isn’t my favorite person, but no one should be talked down to like that.” Cato looks away for a moment. He still has dried blood on his face. I point it out.

He seems unconcerned. “Shirt’s worse.”

“Let me see?”

Cato unzips his jacket. He’s right. Shirt is way worse. We have some spare clothes among the supplies, but very few of them would have any hope of fitting Cato, who, after Thresh, is the most built of us all. And we have to make everything on that sled last as long as possible.

“I can try washing it as best I can. I’ll get soap.” I turn to go, but he stops me.

“You’re offering to do my laundry? Has the world ended? You want something from me, don’t you, Twelve?”

“I want to know what happened when you ‘took care of the problem’ today,” I say honestly.

“You could’ve just asked. You don’t need to bribe me.”

“I’m not bribing you, I’m repaying you for getting your hands dirty so the rest of us didn’t have to. I’ll be right back.” When I come back with the soap, he’s still in the same spot. “Give me your shirt. You can talk while I scrub.”

He shrugs off his jacket then peels off his shirt. As his abs come into view, I suddenly remember that Cato is a very attractive specimen, even if his unpleasant personality does neutralize that most of the time. “If you wanted my clothes off, you could’ve just asked.”

Ugh. Typical male. I grab the shirt and perch on the bank of the stream. The stains have set in, but it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with. Every girl I know is experienced in the art of getting bloodstains out of clothes. I try not to think of what must have happened for so much blood to have saturated Cato’s shirt. “So, Two, talk.”

“Two isn’t my name.”

I twist around, eyebrows raised. “And Twelve isn’t mine.”

“Fair enough. Ember.”

I’m having a civil conversation with a Career. Weirdness overload. “Well...Cato?”

He tells me about the two Peacekeepers who survived the hovercraft crash and decided to tail us. They would’ve murdered us all in our sleep if Marvel and Thresh hadn’t spotted them. That is, all of us but Cedric and me.

“Why us?”

“They wanted you as hostages, against the rebellion.”

“But we’re not worth anything to them. To Thirteen.”

“You’re worth plenty to your parents.”

I almost drop the bar of soap. “My parents. My parents? What did he say about them? Where are they? Are they okay?”

“All he said was that they escaped with some other mentors.”

A weight I didn’t know I had been carrying disappears from my shoulders. Mom. Dad. They’re okay. They’re safe. And if they’re safe, that means Summer is safe, because they would never leave her behind. “Thank God,” I breathe.

“He said that backup would probably have been sent...right around now, actually. But I had him radio someone and tell them he needed more time to look for you and your brother. If the people on the other end fell for it, we have another day before they realize something is wrong. We want to be out of the arena by then.”

“Definitely,” I agree. “We’re sitting ducks while we’re still in here. The arena is Capitol territory.” I continue scrubbing. “Did he say anything else?” He hesitates. That means yes. “What, Cato?”

“A Gamemaker was arrested.”

I freeze. I can only think of one Gamemaker they would arrest. “Rain?”

“He didn’t know, only that someone was.”

Rain. Rain. Rain. My sister, whom I hated for so long, saved us. She saved us all from the Games. She gave us weapons, directions, a fighting chance. And now that I’m finally letting go of my resentment, she’s been arrested. They could be torturing her, starving her. She might be dead.

(Why do I hurt so much?)

I scrub again, with renewed fervor. “They’ll get her out,” I say to myself. “The rebels will free her. They owe her.” I owe her.

“Ember.” Cato crouches beside me. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Fine. Totally fine. It’s just…” I take a deep breath. “I don’t know how to explain it. And you probably don’t want to hear it.”

“Try me.”

I stare at the rippling brook. I’m really about to pour my heart out to a Career, aren’t I? This arena must be getting to my head. “Do you have any siblings?”

“Yeah. An older sister and brother, and a younger sister.”

For some reason, I thought Cato was an only child. No, that’s not quite right, either. I didn’t think about his family at all. I mean, I knew he had one, but I never really _thought_ it. I guess he was justified in reminding me earlier that he is, contrary to common belief, human. “What are their names? How old are they?”

“Vespasia is twenty-three. Tiberius is twenty-five. Laelia is eight.”

Wow. Minus a Cedric and his family could practically be my own. “You love them, don’t you?”

“Sometimes. Vespasia can be a bitch, Tiberius an ass, and Laelia a pain. But most of the time they’re all right.”

Somehow, I chuckle at his colorful description. “But you’ve never really, truly hated any of them, have you?”

He thinks carefully about it. “Can’t say I have.”

“I’ve spent the last ten years hating Rain. This morning, I realized how wrong I was for harboring such feelings. Just now, I learned that she may be lost to us forever, and the last thing I ever said to her was...cruel. I might never be able to make it up to her. I’m angry and upset right now, at myself, at the Capitol, and at her, even though I have no right, not towards her.”

“Why did you hate her?”

“I always thought she abandoned us for the Capitol, so she could go to a super-fancy school and get a cushy job. Turns out she was doing it for us.”

Cato sits back on the grass. “In Two, it’s considered a huge honor if someone is invited to study or live at the Capitol, for the individual and the family. It requires a person of special breed to catch the Capitol’s attention and gain their favor.”

I snort. “We’re not Capitol-adoring sycophants in Twelve. They don’t feed or pamper us anywhere close to the degree they do you.”

“You look plenty fed and pampered,” he points out.

“I’m the child of two Victors. Together, they’re sinfully rich. I always knew when my next meal would be, but the majority of Twelve is destitute. My mother is from the part of Twelve we call the town. Life is better there, food is more dependable, jobs are better-paying and safer, but the wealthiest townie—my family aside, the mayor’s family aside—is probably no richer than your average citizen in Two. I know the baker’s sons, and they can only have the days-old, stale bread and pastries they couldn’t sell. Then there’s the Seam, where my father was born. I have friends there, and they live in one-bedroom shacks without indoor plumbing, without reliable electricity. Most able-bodied men and women work in the mines, sun-up to sundown, for low wages. They have never seen a good meal in their lives. Almost every child who is age-eligible takes out tesserae for their entire family, because they’ll starve otherwise, and it’s the ones who take out the most who can least afford to be chosen for the Games. I’m sure you’ve noticed that practically every tribute we’ve ever had is weak and malnourished. Now you know why. We don’t get your protein-rich diets in Two. We can’t afford to spend hours training every day. The Capitol would never turn a blind eye on us if we tried to give our children a better chance in the Games.”

Cato doesn’t rise to any of my accusations. “I get why your sister could be seen as betraying your District. But betraying your family?”

I scrub the shirt harder. “According to my parents, there are no real Victors in the Games. The Capitol always wins. Mom and Dad were taken unwillingly from their homes so they could kill other children for the Capitol’s entertainment. Which they did, because they had to survive. They lost their innocence in the arena, and they lost a great deal of pride and dignity. The Games would have broken them if they didn’t have each other—and they weren’t supposed to have each other. Only one was supposed to live. My siblings and I are freaks of nature; we should never have been born. Then the Capitol took my older brother, Ash, as soon as they possibly could. And mere weeks after he comes back, Rain goes off to the very place that broke him, so one day she could become a Gamemaker, whose job is to break children just like Ash, just like my mother, just like my father. _That_ was how she betrayed us. Or so I thought until now.”

He tosses some pebbles into the water. “So your sister has been in the Capitol for, what, ten years, you said?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Would there be anyone there who could and would help her now?”

I blow a strand of hair from my face. “She’s engaged.”

“There. Wouldn’t her fiance help?”

“Her fiance is Seneca Crane.”

Cato blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah. And considering how she must have duped him, gone around his back to help us out, he’s probably not feeling very fond of her at the moment.” I dunk the shirt into the water to rinse off soap residue.

“I don’t think they’ll kill her.”

I look sharply at him. “Why?”

“The Peacekeeper said they wanted to take you and your brother in as hostages. Well, that’s not going to happen now. But your sister is just as much your parents’ child as the two of you. I’d wager they’ll consider her more useful alive than dead.”

“But is being alive better than being dead?” I mutter darkly. “Hostages can be tortured.”

“Would you rather her be dead?”

I wring out his shirt a little violently. “I don’t know,” I whisper. I shake out the shirt. The worst of the stains are gone, but there’s still a trace. At least his shirt was already red. The stains aren’t too noticeable. “I recommend you let this dry first before putting it back on,” I say brusquely, as if we haven’t just had a heart-to-heart that I would never have expected to take place this morning, or even an hour ago. “We can lay it out by the fire.”

“Sounds good.” Cato pulls on his jacket, not bothering to zip it up, and picks up his sword. “We should head back. The others are probably wondering if I’ve killed you.”

I sniff delicately. “As if I’d let you.”

Suddenly, his arms are tight around my neck and torso, pressing my back against his chest. Tight, but not strangling. But he could easily choke the life out of me if he wanted to, and we both know it. “Say that again?” he whispers in my ear. “Do you even have a weapon on you right now?” I shake my head. He lets me go. “That’s unwise. You should always be armed. I would’ve thought you’d know better.”

I straighten out my clothes, trying not to seem too flustered. I clear my throat. “So where’s that sincere apology you mentioned earlier today?”

“Hm. Could’ve sworn somebody told me to ‘keep dreaming.’” But he turns around and looks at me seriously. “I am sorry for hurting you. And for threatening to hurt you. It was a psychological ploy, but it was out of line. I wouldn’t have said those things under normal circumstances.”

I exhale and nod. “Apology accepted.” I bite my lip and extend my hand.

He gazes at it before gripping it tightly. “Allies for real now?”

“Allies for real,” I confirm.

Cato drops my hand, and for some reason he looks amused. “I was right, though.”

“Right about…?”

“You using your sister to cheat the Games.”

Ugh. “That is so not what happened and you know it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m hungry.” I stalk away, hearing him chuckle as he follows.

When I step back into camp, I realize that I was right not to worry about helping with hunting. The foragers have a nice pile of edible greens and berries. Ardi and Una have a line of fish. Ced got a few squirrels and Clove some rabbits. But it’s Marvel who steals the show.

He speared a goddamn deer.

“Aren’t deer kind of big for the arena?” I comment. “The Gamemakers usually stick with small animals.”

“Maybe it’s a mutt,” Thierry suggests. After some consideration, we decide it isn’t, and therefore safe to eat. So Vidal, the boy from Ten, starts skinning and prepping the deer while we cook the smaller animals. We set up a few more fires to account for our bounty.

I get another flame going when Thresh comes up and asks, “You all right?”

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were off with Two for a while. Some people were getting worried.”

I lay Cato’s shirt flat on the grass beside the new campfire. “You don’t trust him?”

“He’s a Career.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I agree, “but that was before. You worked with him, Marvel, and Clove today to get rid of our tails. You know as well as I do that they had the opportunity to join up with the Peacekeepers and take out the rest of us. They killed them instead. I think they’ve earned a little trust.”

Thresh nods in acquiescence. “What about Glimmer?”

“She’ll do whatever the other Careers do,” I conjecture. “She’s not the type to go it alone. Thresh, we can’t expend the energy to worry about other tributes. Not with the Capitol looking for us. I understand that it’ll take time for us all to completely warm up to each other, but we have to be united if we want any hope of surviving the next two months together.”

He agrees, and without another word goes off to see if any more hands are needed for dinner. Soon we’re ready to eat, and what I thought was a lot of food actually goes really fast. We only stopped a few times for water breaks and to munch on crackers today, so almost everything we scrounged for dinner is demolished by twenty-four hungry teenagers. It’s fine since we’re still in the arena, where there’s a reasonably steady supply of game and greens. But once we’re out of here and digging into our supplies—we can’t assume there will be critters to hunt on the outside—we’ll need to ration. I eat slowly, savoring every bite, keeping in mind that, depending on how large the arena is, this could be our last good meal.

When everyone’s finished, Sergeant Cato works out the watch rotation. The twelve- and thirteen-year-olds are excused, but there are still nineteen of us who can keep guard. Only eight of us will take shifts each night, to ensure there are always plenty of people with a full night’s sleep. Every two hours, the two sentinels will switch. We pack up most of the camp so that we’re ready to move at a moment’s notice if whoever is on watch spies something alarming.

I don’t have a shift tonight, so I crawl into my sleeping bag, beside Cedric’s. My brother is examining the GPS and the map. “Don’t let that run out of batteries.”

“It’s nuclear-powered. I’ll be a hundred by the time it dies.”

“Whatcha looking at?”

He points on the map. District 12. “Home is going to be directly in our path on the way to Thirteen.”

I sit up. “Ced, you know we can’t go. They’ll be expecting us to go to Twelve.”

Cedric sulks. “I wanna go home.”

“Oh...c’mere.” I hold him close. “We all want to go home, Ced. And we will, one day, when it’s safe. Besides, Mom, Dad, and Summer are in Thirteen. Don’t you want to be where they are?”

“Yeah…”

“They would want us to be careful. Sneaking into Twelve is too risky. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Good boy.” I kiss his forehead. “Now go to sleep. We have another long day ahead of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that additional note I promised. Again, I am squeal-out-loud happy by how much I’ve been communicating with readers (on FF.net, but I love my AO3 readers just the same) since I put up the last chapter. If this chapter gets a similar response to the previous one, on here or on FF.net, I will most definitely be updating again before Christmas. 
> 
> Now, a little holiday present for my readers, and perhaps a little incentive for you all to comment. ;) If by the time I publish the next chapter, the total ORIGINAL comments (comments in response to already-posted comments don’t count) on this entire fic reach 10 (we’re currently at 6), I will randomly select one of the people who review between now and then and, based on a prompt of his/her choosing, write a one-shot taking place in the Sweetest Mockery universe. (The more you comment, the better your chance of being selected!) The prompt can be about almost anything and anyone you want, even something AU within this already AU universe (limitations will be clarified to the selected commenter). You will have to be signed in to be eligible. I would also like to selfishly request that comments say something beyond “update soon,” because I like it when readers tell me what they like and don’t like, what they’re looking forward to, and what their theories are.
> 
> Please comment (thus entering yourself for the chance to direct a one-shot), and see you all soon!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was supposed to be posted yesterday, but my car decided cruising along the highway was a good time to hemorrhage…
> 
> In other news, I have survived finals, hurray! So, while we didn’t hit the 10 original comments goal here, we did hit a similar target that I had over on FF.Net, so I will indeed be posting a oneshot, hopefully sometime around Christmas. Keep an eye out for that! I would also like to thank Sterekscissac213 for leaving a nice comment on the last chapter.
> 
> Enjoy the (obscenely long) chapter!

The good news is we reach the edge of the arena the next day. The force field must have gone down with Rain’s great hacking-palooza yesterday, so we don’t need to worry about that. Cedric does seem mildly disappointed he won’t get a chance to blow it up, though.

The bad news is we have to cross a river.

“Why even bother with a force field if they had this already,” I grouse. “I suppose it’s too much to hope there’s a bridge further down.”

“The river can’t go all the way around the arena,” Cedric quips, staring apprehensively at the water. “There’s gotta be a way to cross somewhere.”

Cato and I exchange glances. “We don’t have time,” he says. He’s right. Soon, the Capitol will realize the Peacekeepers they sent aren’t coming back. They may have realized already.

“Should a few people scout a better place to cross?” I suggest.

“I think here is as good as it’s going to get.”

Probably right, again. I can easily see the other side of the river, and the distance isn’t too challenging a swim. But the current is strong and could easily sweep one of the smaller kids away. It could sweep _me_ away. At least the speed of the current means it can’t be too deep.

“We should get a rope across,” says Finch, the red-haired girl from Five. “That’ll help with the crossing.”

“How are we going to do that?” I ask. “I don’t suppose one of the tributes from Ten can lasso a tree on the other side.”

“The girl from Four has a harpoon.”

We find Una, and she comes forward to take a look at the problem. “Harpoon cable should be long enough. That tree there, right?” At our affirmation, she takes aim and fires. The harpoon sinks deep into the tree on the other side. Una looks pleased with herself.

“The cable doesn’t look too sturdy,” I observe.

“We can reinforce it,” Finch suggests. “Someone goes across first with extra rope, winds it around the cable, ties it around the tree trunk.”

“I’ll do it!” Ardi volunteers eagerly. “I’m a great swimmer, and I’m fast.”

“You’re too small,” Cato tells him bluntly.

“I swim in the ocean all the time. This is just a river.”

“ _I’ll_ do it,” Una says. Ardi looks upset, but his District partner doesn’t budge. She takes two ropes, the longest we have, and wades into the river. She winds the ropes with the cable, almost as if she’s making a giant braid. Una looks just as sure of herself in the river as she does on land, so I don’t worry until the water reaches her waist. At that point, she has to start fighting the current, and now she only has one hand to braid the ropes because the other is clinging to the cable for support.

“Someone should help her,” I say, pulling off my backpack.

Cato holds out his hand. “Wait. Watch.”

Una swings herself up so she’s sitting on the cable. I fret that her weight will make it snap, but it holds. Slowly but surely, she crosses to the other side, and I exhale audibly when she wades to the bank and wraps the end of the ropes around the tree.

“Unfortunately,” Cato says, “we still don’t know how deep the river is, because she stopped and climbed up before she was halfway across.”

Right. I eye Ced uneasily. I don’t want him trying to ford the water himself. Or Rue, or Ardi, or any of the other kids who are almost as small as them. “We also need to figure out how to get the supplies there.”

Lothar, one of the older kids who have been inconspicuously eavesdropping on Cato and me, bounds forward. “The sled floats. I mean, not now, since it’s full. But it can still hold some things and remain afloat, and several people can guide it across.”

“And there are nets!” Ardi points out. “We can use them to haul the rest of the supplies.”

“Will the sled be able to withstand the current?” I ask Lothar.

He huffs. “I helped make it. Of course it will.”

Superb. One less thing to worry about. “Anyone under five feet, find a friend for the crossing. Preferably someone over six feet.” The small kids end up being Ced, Rue, Ardi, and poor Jaxon, who’s fourteen but unfortunately short. On the other end of the spectrum, our biggest guys are Cato, Marvel, Thresh, and Duff, a soft-spoken boy from Eight. “Anyone else who’s worried about crossing alone, I recommend you be part of the group escorting the sled and supplies, so you have something extra to hang on to.”

Rue immediately flits over to Thresh, naturally. Marvel, the second tallest after Thresh, sensibly takes Jaxon, who’s the tallest of the shorties. Ardi refuses to even look Cato’s way, eyes timidly averted, as he beelines for Duff.

Cedric peers up at Cato, who peers right back down at him. “Don’t let me drown,” my brother orders, his nervousness audible.

“Yes, sir,” Cato drawls.

Bartel volunteers to make the first solo crossing, to test the depth and stability of the river floor. He’s only a little taller than me, but as a lumberjack-in-the-making from Seven, he’s sturdily built. As he wades in, everyone else begins unpacking the sled, removing the objects that will float and wrapping what absolutely must be kept dry in tarps. Cato and I watch carefully as Bartel wades deeper and deeper, clutching the cable. A little before halfway, he begins treading water. The cable stretches a foot over the surface, and he clings to it to keep his head above water. The current batters him, but Bartel clenches his jaw as he resolutely trudges on. Finally, he reaches the other side, and Una helps him onto dry land.

“Anyone my height or taller should be fine,” I comment.

“If they’re strong enough,” Cato counters. “He’s only an inch taller than the kid from Three, but Bartel is much stronger and more solid.”

Point. “We should get the sled and supplies across first. Like I said earlier, anyone who doesn’t think they’ll be okay crossing alone should be with this group.”

Of all those without a crossing buddy, Jean is the smallest. Once we push the sled into the shallows, we strap her on top, snug in between the few supplies we left on it. I loop her belt around the cable and instruct her to slip her hand in. “You’re responsible for making sure the sled doesn’t drift away,” I tell her. “Whatever you do, do _not_ let go of this belt.” She nods vehemently, tightening her grip. The kids escorting the sled push off from the shore. The current ravages the group, trying to pull the sled downriver, but Jean hangs on and the sled helps the others from being swept away.

As soon as the sled group reaches the shallows, I send off the group with the nets of supplies. My idea with the belt catches on, and several of them use theirs to secure corners of the nets to the cable. Crates, tents, and everything else that can float bob alongside them. “As soon as they get there,” I say, “the crossing pairs should go.”

“Em, what about you?” Cedric protests.

“I’ll be behind you,” I promise. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself, and keep the map and GPS dry.”

Duff and Ardi are the first crossing buddies to go. Ardi piggybacks on the bigger boy, who uses both their belts as hand loops for the cable. When they’re a few yards in, Marvel and Jaxon follow, then Thresh and Rue.

“Alright, get up, kid,” Cato tells Ced, crouching so he can climb on. Cedric shoots me another worried look as he clambers up, arms wrapped around Cato’s neck as tightly as he can without choking him and clinging to the older boy’s back like an oversized burr.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go first?” Ced tries asking me again.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” I smile reassuringly at my brother. “Just be the smart boy you are and don’t cause any trouble during the crossing. And if Cato asks you to do something, do it.” I peck him on the cheek.

Before I can step back, Cato turns and murmurs, “Do I get one?”

I gape at him. He wants...a kiss? Really? Right now? From _me?_ “Only if you bring Ced across safe and sound,” I manage.

“It’s a deal.” He wades into the water. Like Marvel and Thresh, he doesn’t bother with belts, and the three of them are strong enough that I don’t insist on it. I clasp my hands tightly as I watch Cato and Ced get deeper. Cato treads a little at the deepest part, but his and Cedric’s heads are still well over the surface. I don’t think their hair is even wet. I can’t see their faces from behind, but I notice Cato turning his head. He must be telling Cedric to do something, because I see my brother carefully shifting his position on Cato’s back.

I don’t breathe again until the water is chest-level with Cato, and Cedric has less of a stranglehold around his neck.

“Alright, looks like it’s just us,” Clove announces. She, Glimmer, Lothar, Vidal, and myself are the only ones left on this side of the river. Clove removes her belt, loops it around the cable, and takes off. Glimmer doesn’t spare the rest of us another glance before following suit. Lothar hesitates, eyeing me uncertainly, but when I gesture for him to go, he readily does so.

Vidal, on the other hand, is a tad more stubborn. “Ladies first.”

I sigh. Usually, I appreciate a good show of chivalry, but not when we’re trying to swiftly cross a coursing river and can’t waste time squabbling over manners. “Vidal, your foot.”

“My arms are fine.”

“Yes, but you’re more likely to lose your footing than I am. If I follow you, I can see if you need help. Go on.” I practically have to push him into the water. When he realizes I’m immoveable, he reluctantly forges on.

Though Clove is relatively small, she is clearly a strong swimmer and makes it across without a problem. Glimmer similarly has no issues. Lothar reaches the shallows on the other side, and Vidal is just ahead of me in the middle of the river when we hear the explosion. I crane my neck and spot a column of smoke rising over the forest behind us.

“What was that?” Vidal asks.

My gut is roiling with dread. “I don’t know. Keep going.”

Moments later, the mutts arrive.

They tear out of the forest and growl when they spot us. Four or five of them,  nightmarish and bastardized versions of wolves, slobbering and howling for blood. They’re enormous. I think they might be the same size as Thresh.

“ _Move!_ ” I yell, and Vidal picks up the pace. _Please don’t let the mutts know how to swim, please don’t let the mutts know how to swim…_

They jump into the water.

It’s at this opportune moment that Vidal’s foot gives way, and he lurches into the water. I grab his arm. “We’re almost there, come on!”

“Where’s my bow?” I hear Cedric wail as I _pushpushpush_ Vidal forward. I see Clove whipping her arm, and one of the mutts, the closest one, whines as her knife connects lethally. She launches another one, but her targeted mutt twists in the water so the blade only hits its flank.

My foot touches the river floor. I haul Vidal with me up the shallows. But he stumbles, and a mutt latches onto his bad leg. He screams in agony as Cato lunges forward and swings his sword, severing the mutt’s head. Vidal is gasping in pain, and Lothar rushes over to help me support him.

Cato has moved on to the next mutt, and Marvel charges with his spear. Clove slices the air with her knives, grim satisfaction lighting up her face. Glimmer pulls a machete, and Thresh leaps in with his sickle. Most of the other kids have run up the slope for cover, but a few, like Bartel and Susanna, position themselves between the younger tributes and the fray. Cedric has found his bow and is covering the Careers and Thresh from higher up. He shoots a mutt in the snout before it can take a chunk out of Marvel’s shoulder, and the boy from One quickly takes out the beast.

Lothar and I drag Vidal up the hill. “Anyone have first aid?” I demand, trying not to panic at the sight of Vidal’s mangled calf.

“It’s on the sled,” Rue responds, eyes wide.

I twist around to see how the fight is going. They’ve cornered the last mutt, and none of our friends look the worse for wear. I look back at the blood spattering Vidal’s pants leg, and I judge the need for first aid urgent enough to run out now. “Be right back.” I slide down the slope and dash to the half-packed sled. One of the medical bins sits on top of the mound. As I reach for it, I hear a growl behind me.

One last mutt, one that we all missed, bares its teeth. I scream before throwing myself to the side. It lunges and pins me down with a massive paw. Snarling, it leans in, panting, and I get a face full of its rancid breath. Just as it’s about to make me its lunch, there’s a thud sound. The mutt’s eyes darken, and it collapses on top of me. Dead.

“Ugh!” It’s heavy. I first try to throw it off, then I try to wriggle out from underneath its corpse, but to no avail. Great. I’m going to suffocate. What a way to go.

Abruptly, its weight is lifted, and I watch its body roll off to the side. An arrow sticks out of its skull. I sit up, shaken. Cato, who pushed the mutt’s corpse off me, helps me to my feet. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he demands. “Running straight into danger like that, not even armed? Didn’t I tell you it’s idiotic not to have a weapon on you at all times?”

My anger flares, and I stop trembling. “I didn’t know it was there!” I snap back. “I thought you guys had the last one.”

“You’re lucky your brother shot it, or you’d be dead,” Cato spits, then turns to glare at the kids hiding among the trees on the hill. “Get back out here! We have shit to do before we can move on.”

I fume as he stalks away. I almost die, and he _yells_ at me? Who does he think he is? I barely have the presence of mind to remember to grab the cursed medical bin, and a canteen of water, and lug them with me back uphill. Lothar hasn’t moved Vidal, for fear of exacerbating his injury. My stomach turns at the sight of his leg, but I force it to cooperate. If only I had taken more first aid lessons from Mrs. Everdeen.

“I can do that.” Finch, from Five, offers.

“You know what to do?” I ask, already moving aside for her.

“Yup.” She doesn’t clarify, just starts cleaning the wound. I watch her for a few moments, marveling at how fast her hands are working. “I can handle this myself. You two can do something else.”

“If you’re sure.” I place my hand on her shoulder. “Thanks, Finch.” She bobs her head and continues to work. “Alright, Lothar, let’s see if they need help packing.”

Cedric is waiting for me as we descend the slope. “Em, are you okay?”

“Yes, thanks to you.” I hug him. “Thank you, Ced. I would’ve died if it weren’t for you.”

“I heard you scream, and I just...I reacted.” Ced is clutching an arrow. I see the tip is encrusted with blood. It must be the one from the mutt’s corpse.

“Thank goodness for your fast reflexes, then. Are you fine?”

“Yeah.” Then he punches my arm. “You lied! You said you would be right behind me! You weren’t! Liar!”

I can’t help laughing as I rub where his fist connected. “I said _behind_ you, not _right_ behind you.”

“You suck!” Cedric walks off in a huff.

Speaking of mutts’ corpses. The ones that were killed deeper in the river have been washed away, but some are festering in the shallows and on the ground. Part of me wants to say good riddance and let the vultures and maggots and worms have at them, but I know the ones still in the water should at least be moved, lest the bodies pollute what may be our only drinking source. Thresh moves to stand beside me. I tell him my thoughts, he nods, and we begin to pull the mutts out of the shallows.

Where did the mutts come from? Did the explosion right before their appearance have something to do with it? Did their cage or pen or whatever malfunction and let them escape, or were they set loose? If the latter, were they freed with the intention of hunting us?

“I want to get far away from this arena,” I say aloud. “ASAP.”

“Agreed.” We only move the corpses a little farther up the bank. They’re not worth any more effort than that.

When we finish, I search for Cedric, who’s examining the GPS and map, which miraculously escaped getting wet. I think he’s forgotten his anger at me, because he motions for me to join him. “Now that we’re out of the arena, I figured we should start thinking about where in Panem we actually are.” He points at the map. “We’re almost due north of the Capitol. If we go south, we’ll hit District 2. If we go east, District 5.”

“Don’t we want to avoid the Districts, Ced?”

“Yeah, but here’s the thing. Look.” He points at District 12. “This entire region is Twelve. But we both know that the town, the mines, and the Seam definitely don’t take up this whole place. The boundaries drawn on this map are almost arbitrary. They’re where the Capitol says the lines between Districts are drawn, not where the people in the Districts actually live. See, even though it would only take a few days for us to cross into what’s technically Two’s territory, it’d take even longer for us to reach an actual populated area. It’s like how _we_ don’t really consider beyond the fence to be Twelve, but the Capitol does, even though they don’t patrol it.”

Huh. I wonder why the Capitol lets so much of that space sit there, untouched and unused. “So what route are you recommending?”

“East into unpopulated Five territory. We’ll eventually pass back into the wilderness again, and then we might cut through the northeastern corner of Ten. Then we’ll hit this cluster of lakes near Eleven and Twelve. Ideally we’d find a boat or raft to get across, but we might just end up circling around the lakes into District land. Unpopulated, of course. Then we cut through the edge of Twelve, and ta-da, Thirteen.”

He makes it sound so easy. It looks like nothing on the map, just a few inches separating us from our destination. The reality is much harder. “Good job, Ced.”

It takes a bunch of us to push and pull the sled up the slope. Finch is waiting with Vidal, who looks better but very pale.

“Can he walk?” I ask Finch quietly. She shakes her head no. “We’ll have to put him on the sled, then.”

The four kids on sled duty are disgruntled by the extra weight, even after redistributing some of the supplies among the rest of us, but there’s nothing we can do. I refuse to leave anyone behind, and Vidal is too big to be carried by a single person. Finally, we’re on the move once more, and again I’m at the front with Cedric. But this time, it’s Thresh beside us.

“Where’s Cato?” I ask him.

“Covering the rear.”

I am not offended. I am not.

Our trek is dull and uneventful, just the way I like it. After a few hours, with a short break somewhere in the middle, it’s my turn to help with the sled. Kit, Finch’s District partner, eagerly swaps places with me. Unfortunately, he’s one of the pushers, which puts me in an uncomfortable proximity with Cato, who evidently took his turn with the sled earlier and is back on rear duty. I determinedly don’t look at him. Finch is my fellow pusher, and I easily work out a rhythm with her and the two pullers. “How are you doing, Vidal?” I grunt.

“Still alive,” he says weakly, but not frighteningly so. There’s a small stash of chocolate among the supplies, and Finch recommended he have a few pieces to help compensate for the blood loss. It seems to have worked. The problem is now all the younger kids want chocolate, so I had to hide it beneath the canned vegetables. “Sorry to be such a burden.”

Before I can respond, Glimmer, who’s also at the rear, mutters, “Should’ve just left him back there.” Vidal winces.

I glare at her over my shoulder. “Excuse you.” I can’t believe I stood up for her to Cato last night.

Speaking of whom, even though I kind of wish I could see his expression—so I can judge whether or not he agrees with Glimmer—I still refuse to look at him, Mr. I’ll-Shout-in-Your-Face-After-You-Almost-Died-a-Grisly-Death.

Glimmer sneers back. “He can’t push or pull the sled. He can’t guard the group. He can’t carry any supplies. As a matter of fact, he _adds_ to the supplies. Are we supposed to lug him along on the sled for two months? He can’t even walk anymore, which makes even the twelve-year-olds less burdensome than him.”

To be honest, Glimmer brings up fair points, but it’s the way she delivers them, with scorn and little regard for Vidal’s feelings, that makes me seethe.

I’m silent, and Glimmer takes it to mean she wins. “See, Cato, even she can’t come up with anything—”

I say abruptly, “Hey, Vidal, you butchered that deer yesterday, right?”

Vidal is jolted out of his melancholy. “Um, yes?”

“Where’d you learn how to do that? I know how to skin smaller animals, but nothing huge like a deer.”

“I work in a slaughterhouse in Ten. I’ve butchered hundreds of cows in my lifetime. I just took what I knew and applied it to the deer, with a few tweaks. They’re similar enough.”

“Well, this part of Panem is supposed to have plenty of big game, so we’ll be counting on you to prep our food.” Wow, pushing is tiring, and I haven’t even been doing it for long. I strengthen my resolve. “If you’re a butcher, then you must be good with knives.”

“Oh, yeah. I can’t throw them like Clove, but I know how to find joints and tendons and such, and the best places to, uh, chop.” He does a little hand motion.

“On people?” I query.

“Yes…”

“People aren’t cows.”

“We’re all sacks of meat and blood and bones, when it comes down to it,” Vidal states, shrugging. “We aren’t that different.”

Lovely. Glimmer hasn’t spoken, so I silently, gleefully claim victory. But at this point, I care less about our argument and more about hearing what Vidal’s life at home is like. I usually don’t hear much about District 10. “What else do you do in Ten?”

“I’m not a herder, but I love riding horses.”

“But...your foot?”

“Yeah, that used to be a problem. But my best friend makes saddles, and he designed one for me to compensate for my bad leg. Have you ever ridden a horse, Ember?”

“This year at the Opening Ceremonies was the first time I ever came within ten feet of a horse.”

“Shame. It’s the best feeling in the world. Horse between your legs, racing across the plains, wind in your face. If you ever come to Ten, I’ll take you out on horseback on the prairie. Well, that is…” We reach the same thought at the same time. That’s assuming if there will still be a Ten for us to go to.

Assuming the rebellion goes well.

Assuming we survive this journey to Thirteen first.

Lots of assumptions.

I look left at Finch. “What do you guys do in Five?”

“We’re the Power District,” she deadpans.

“Okay, I know _that_ much,” I say wryly. “What do you do in particular?”

“I go to school.”

Sigh. She’s going to make me work for answers, isn’t she? “What do you study?”

“My specialty is chemistry.”

Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. “What’s that like?”

“I hate it.”

I spoke too soon. “Then what do you like doing?” Finch nods at Vidal. “Healing?”

“First aid,” she corrects me.

“Where did you learn to do that, anyway?”

“Textbooks.”

Wow. She’s like a combination of Cedric and Prim. But much less talkative. “That’s impressive. Are you always this loquacious?”

A ghost of a smile tickles her lips. “I’ll talk to you more when I like you more.”

Maybe I should be offended, but it feels less like an insult and more like a statement of fact. I grin back. “Challenge accepted.”

Finch looks at me as if she expects me to go on another tangent, but I keep my lips zipped. When I have something I want to say to her, I’ll say it. She catches on fast, and her ghost smile because a little more alive.

When we stop at dusk, I join the hunting party this time, with my blowgun. We’ve left the river behind us, so Ardi and Una can’t fish. I’m more concerned about what we’ll do for water now. Hopefully there will be streams ahead, but as with food, I fear water will have to be rationed. As Ced, Marvel, Clove and I leave, Thierry is giving instructions on how to dig a fire pit that will hide the smoke. The Capitol is surely searching for us now, and a trail of smoke in the nighttime is a veritable beacon in the darkness.

“We should split into pa—” I begin.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Clove interrupts, and she stalks off by herself.

“Eh, she’ll be fine.” Marvel shrugs. “Let’s go this way?”

Cedric kills a bird almost right off the bat. Then two. Then three. After the third drops dead, the rest of the flock realizes the imminent danger and rushes away. Upon closer look, I see that they’re pheasants. “Geeze, Ced!” Has he always been this good? He puts even Katniss to shame.

“He was like this yesterday, too,” Marvel quips. “Never saw anyone get so many squirrels that fast. It’s like they walk right into his hands.”

“I see a rabbit!” Cedric whispers, and he tiptoes ahead, leaving Marvel and me to collect his kills.

“So, uh, Ember,” Marvel begins, picking up a pheasant.

I eye him warily. “That’s my name.”

“Yes, it is. Speaking of names, you wouldn’t happen to know the name of the redhead from Five, would you?”

Whoa there. I stop what I’m doing so I can stare at him. Does he like Finch? Has he ever even spoken to her before? Or it might just be that Marvel thinks she’s cute. That’s usually reason enough to crush on someone. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just trying to get to know my fellow traveling companions.”

I narrow my eyes. “You could ask her yourself.”

“She always seems to vanish when I come close. I figure using her name instead of ‘Five’ will more effectively get her attention.”

Huh. Well, there’s no real reason for me _not_ to tell him Finch’s name. It’s not like it’s a secret; they broadcasted every tribute’s personal info during the Reapings, training, and the interviews. It’s his fault if he didn’t pay attention before. And it’s not like Marvel knowing her name will create a cataclysmic shift in the universe.

But it might be fun to mess around with Marvel. Also, I’m no closer to confirming or disproving my theory that Marvel is actually pretty smart, and he just acts like he isn’t. Finch radiates the vibe that she’s freakishly intelligent, and judging by how reserved she behaves, she probably has no patience for people she deems unintelligent. She won’t give Stupid Marvel the time of day (maybe that’s why she “vanishes” whenever he approaches), but Smart Marvel? It’ll be entertaining to see the lengths he resorts to.

“Foxface.”

Marvel blinks. “Foxface?”

“That’s her name.”

He wrinkles his nose. “No it’s not.”

“Yeah, you’re right, it isn’t. You know how you can find out her real name? By asking her.”

“Ugh. You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, fine. Then…I won’t tell you a secret I know about Cato.”

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “And how would you know any of his secrets? You only met him a few days ago, same as everyone else.”

“Well, you in particular came up quite a bit in conversation back at the Tribute Center.”

Do I really want to know what kinds of things about me Cato and Marvel talked about? Considering they’re both teenaged boys, probably not. “Did you two have these heart-to-hearts quite frequently?”

“Eh. I mean, we all hung out together, the two of us and Glimmer and Clove, but there are some things you just don’t talk about with girls.” He winks. I roll my eyes. “And none of the other tributes really talked to us, so sometimes it was just Cato and me.”

“Maybe they didn’t talk to you because they knew you guys wanted to kill them?”

“Bingo, Girl on Fire.” His expression becomes uncharacteristically serious. “Are you trying to get me to apologize for that?”

I think about the apology Cato gave yesterday, and the one I elicited from him after that. He offered the first apology because I didn’t trust him, and we needed me to trust him. My trust in Marvel is not an issue right now—just as I came to believe that Cato is no longer a danger to everyone else, now that the Games are no more, so do I believe that Marvel isn’t going to be shish-kebabing any other kids.

Cato gave the second apology because he sincerely wanted my forgiveness for his ugly threats and rude manhandling. As far as I’m aware, Marvel hasn’t been throwing me around in elevators or asking me if I’m a screamer.

“No, I don’t want an apology,” I say truthfully. “Obviously, I didn’t like or trust you before, at the Tribute Center. You know how the rest of us view Careers. But the problem wasn’t you, or Cato, or Clove or Glimmer. It’s always been the Capitol that’s made us turn on each other. Who you were in the Games—or when you thought you would be in the Games—isn’t necessarily who you are outside of them. And I’m fine with non-Games Marvel.”

He looks stunned at first, but soon enough he’s smiling that trademark goofy Marvel smile. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself, Girl on Fire.”

We share a moment of happily companionable silence. But my curiosity gets the better of me. “So that secret of Cato’s…”

“Stays a secret until you fulfill your end of the bargain.”

Before I can respond, Cedric tumbles back into view. “Hurry up, slowpokes! There are a bunch of rabbits that need picking up!”

When we eventually meet back up with Clove, our combined kills, though not the feast we had last night, are plenty to satisfy everyone’s bellies. Thierry has constructed two of his smoke-concealing fire pits, and we cook our dinner over them.  After we finish stuffing our faces, we settle down for the night. I’m one of the two people on the first watch.

The other is Cato.

So not a coincidence. He assigns the stupid shifts. I narrow my eyes at him as everybody else begins to turn down. What does he want? I look away as he turns his head my direction and gaze down at Cedric, my expression softening. He’s curled up in his sleeping bag, clutching the cloth bookmark that he brought as his token. Ced used to be attached at the hip with his baby blanket, but it got ruined a few years ago when he spilled one of his science experiments all over it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Cedric cry so heartbrokenly. But Mom managed to salvage the largest piece and turned it into the worn, faded bookmark in his hand now.

I run my hand through his ratty curls. There are combs and other grooming tools in a special toiletries box (because the Capitol likes tributes to look pretty while they kill each other); I’ll have to run one through his hair soon. I’ll have to run one through _my_ hair soon. “Goodnight, Cedric.”

He mumbles in response. Poor baby. Back home, he can stay up way past midnight, no problem, but all of our walking is exhausting him at the end of each day.

I scooch around so I’m facing our surroundings, my back to the camp. The fire pits emanate sufficient light for me to be able to see the edge of the clearing, so I don’t bother with any of the night-vision glasses. I’m more tired than yesterday, since I had a turn with the sled today, but not so fatigued that I can’t keep my eyes open. Still, I’ll look forward to when the two hours are up. One of the other kids brought a watch as their token, and we use that to time the shifts. Cato has it now, but there’s no way I’m going over there to ask him how much time has passed. I’m starting to reminisce about one of my earliest memories, the day Cedric was born, when I hear footsteps behind me. Heart in my throat, I jump up. It’s only Cato.

(Psh, _only_ Cato? There’s no such thing as _only_ Cato.)

“For your information,” I whisper harshly, “I do have a weapon on me this time.”

“Is that a threat?” He sounds amused. It irks me.

“Does it need to be?”

He smirks. “You’re nowhere near as scary as you think you are.”

“Okay, you know what? You can go back to your half of the camp.” I jab my finger toward where he came from. “And maybe we can actually, you know, _keep watch?_ ”

“This is important, Ember. Look, earlier today, we both said some things that shouldn’t have been said—”

“‘We?’ Excuse me, but I think you mean ‘you.’”

“The point is,” Cato barrels on, seething, “we’ve had a bad dynamic going on since then, and people have noticed.”

A bad dynamic? That’s one way to put it. “So we’re not each other’s favorite person at the moment. What’s it to them?”

“We’re the ones in charge. When things sour with the leaders, it affects everyone else. We need to work together. So whatever is off between us, we need to fix it now.”

 _We_ again. I make to kick Cato off his high horse, but the gravity in his expression makes me pause and think. I know that somehow, despite not being the oldest or biggest or strongest or smartest tribute, I am in charge. I didn’t want to be, but it comes with the territory when you’re the only one with an escape plan.

Cato didn’t even want to come with us in the first place. He wanted to stay put in the arena until he and the Careers were picked up and sent to a five-star hotel while the Gamemakers fixed their issues. If I recall correctly, Thresh was the first tribute to approach me when it became clear the Games were having technical difficulties, so by seniority—and sheer size—he ought to be my co-captain.

But he’s not. Somehow, it’s Cato. Cato is the one who organizes the night watches, who works out the rotations with the sled, who sorts out potential and real threats, like with the Peacekeepers. Our talk last night by the arena’s stream comes to mind. And we did function well together when we were trying to figure out how to get everyone across the river today.

Goddammit. We’re the parents of the group, aren’t we?

“Fine. I’ll start.” I place my hands on my hips. “I am very pissed about how you raged at me immediately after I was almost eaten by a mutt. It’s true, I didn’t have a weapon, because I didn’t want to be weighed down in the water, so I emptied my pockets. But even if I did have a knife on me, what good would that have done to the mutt? I had zero reaction time, and there were only so many spots on those beasts where a bitty knife could have done critical damage. If I had known there was a mutt hiding, then of course I wouldn’t have run out into the open until it was taken care of. But I didn’t know, and I wanted to help Vidal as soon as possible. There was no need to bite my head off. The mutt could’ve done that for you.”

“And there’s my problem,” Cato retorts. “Your need to be such a big goddamn hero, to help everybody, even when they don’t ask for it.”

“A big—Vidal needed help!”

“Was he dying?”

“Y—” I pause. Finch didn’t seem too alarmed when she was working on Vidal’s leg. In truth, it was a flesh wound more than anything. “No, but—”

“No. He wasn’t. It could have waited, but you didn’t, and you almost died trying to be his savior. And even if it had been more serious, there were other people who could have gotten the medical kit.”

 “So you’re saying I should have sent someone else to risk their life instead?”

“Yes,” he says seriously, “and I’m going to tell you why, before _you_ bite my head off. Of all the people in this group, Ember, you are the least expendable. You might not have much information about this rebellion or Thirteen, but you still know more than any of the rest of us, by far. You’re the one leading us. You’re the one everyone looks up to. You’re the one holding the group together. If you had died today, Ember, I guarantee that we would have fallen apart instantly. This group would have splintered, and all the younger kids would have been left behind, your brother included. Yes, you _can_ be the one to run blindly into danger and throw yourself in front of everybody else. But this group needs you to be more than a human shield. We need you to stay alive and guide everyone and keep us all together.”

I try to argue. I try to shoot down all his arguments. But I can’t. If I die, who would take my place? Surely no one else would volunteer to shoulder the burden of caring for the likes of Ardi or Jean or Thierry. And I’m shuddering just thinking about what if Ced had watched his big sister get chewed up by a mutt, and then not long after be abandoned in the wilderness because no one else wanted him.

Marvel? He would have no reason to stick around for their sakes.

Clove? She would probably think it kinder to put them out of their misery before they starved to death.

Glimmer? After today’s episode with Vidal, I’d be a fool to hope for any pity from her towards the kids.

Thresh? He would take Rue, for sure. Maybe some of the younger kids, if he’s as compassionate as I hope he is. But everyone else he’d leave to fend for themselves.

Cato?

“What would you have done, if I’d died today?”

“Certainly not what you’re hoping,” he answers matter-of-factly. “I would have abandoned ship before long and made my own way home. You have to see, Ember, that you’re the only reason this group is sticking together and operating as it is. Without you, it’s doomed.”

I cross my arms. “So what, I put everyone else in the line of fire before me? Isn’t a leader supposed to be the one who makes sacrifices?”

“Everyone has to make sacrifices,” he counters. “And yes, a leader does take responsibility, but a leader also delegates responsibility. A leader places everyone in the position where they’ll most benefit the group. If sending Five or Six to face that mutt today would have made the most use out of them, then so be it.” Cato grips my shoulder. “Everything can’t always be on you, Ember. You have to accept the fact that you can’t do everything. You will have to make hard choices. And there may come a time, if things get worse, when you will have to accept that you can’t save everyone. It all comes down to the same thing: you can’t do it all alone.”

The weight of his hand is forceful, but not to the point it makes me lose my balance and stagger. Rather, it’s steady. Firm. Anchoring. Every time I talk to the boy from Two, I realize there is so much more to him than the intimidating, hulking brute that I once thought he was. “But I’m not alone. I have you, don’t I?”

He stares. I can see the blueness of his eyes, even with only the dim firelight. I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing up, down. I can see emotions flickering across his face so fast, it’s as if he never felt them. And then he says, “Yes. You do. You have me.”

Cedric snorts quietly in his sleep and rolls over, mumbling incoherently. I realize how fortunate we are to not have woken him, or anyone else, however hushed our argument was. “So,” I begin again, “you stop yelling at me for not having a weapon—”

“Only if you actually have a weapon.”

“—and I stop trying to ‘be a goddamned hero’ and ‘do everything,’ as you say. Though I do think you’re not completely right about that, because, I mean, I let you do schedules and rotations, don’t I?”

“You would’ve done those, too, if  I hadn’t gotten to them first,” he shoots back.

“Hypotheticals. So, is that it? Have we missed anything? Is there something between us that’s still unsettled?”

Cato starts to shake his head, but pauses. He studies me carefully, deliberately.

I frown. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

“Only a bit of mud and grime from getting dunked in the river and hiking through the woods, same as everyone else. No, it’s not that. I need to collect from you.”

“Collect? Collect what?” I don’t remember owing him anything.

He seems a little disappointed. “Something we agreed on right before Cedric and I crossed the river. If you don’t recall, then we’ll settle another time.”

Hm. I promised him something before the crossing. What was it? I visualize the events. Ced was worried about me crossing after him, I told him I’d be fine, he got on Cato’s back, I told him to be good and listen to Cato, then Cato said—

Oh.

I eye the Career before me uncertainly. Mom _said_ he was attracted to me, but I didn’t really believe her. And someone as seemingly logical and pragmatic as Cato knows that now isn’t the best time to be acting on physical attraction, even if people like Marvel apparently still have the capacity to try to flirt with nameless redheads.

Marvel’s voice pops into my head. _I won’t tell you a secret I know about Cato._ I’m pretty sure this “secret” has something to do with me, since Marvel was so emphatic about how I was a common subject of their conversation. Could the secret be something about Cato’s supposed attraction toward me? If it is, it isn’t a very well-kept secret, considering my own mother figured it out rather quickly.

Wow. Maybe guys really do talk about their crushes to each other, same as girls.

Nerves flutter in my belly as I contemplate my next move. Whatever I do, it will change the dynamic between Cato and me. If I acquiesce, there will be obvious consequences, which I’m not ready to face at the moment. If I deny him, well, presumably he’ll back off—despite everything that happened between us at the Tribute Center, I honestly don’t think Cato is the type for sexual harassment under normal circumstances, and he did apologize—but we’ll lose some of the recently regained warmth in our relationship.

(And I don’t know if I want to deny him.)

Somewhere in the middle, then.

Cato looks as if he’s given up on an answer, or at least an answer he’ll be happy with. So his eyes widen in surprise when I dart in and chastely kiss his cheek, then just as quickly back away, out of reach.

“That’s exactly what I gave Ced,” I tell him, trying not to let my tingling lips affect me. “Any more than that, you’ll have to earn it.”

His eyes darken as he slowly smiles. But instead of stalking towards me like I thought he might, he retreats to his original post at the opposite side of camp. There’s a heavy feeling in my chest that I can’t identify as I watch him go.

 _Good job, Ember,_ I mentally chide myself. _Got yourself entangled in adolescent romance angst and hormonal attraction while you’re on the run in the wild. No better time or place for all that nonsense._

Times like these make me wish I had Madge with me—well, not really, because try as Katniss and I might, we just can’t get my cousin and the wilderness to mix. But the point is, I’ve never not had Madge when I needed to talk to someone about boys, and I _really_ need Madge now. Because the truth is, although I’m good at pretending otherwise in public, I actually don’t have much experience with boys. (It doesn’t help having a father who likes to purposefully remind everyone that yes, he is a Victor, and yes, he has killed people, whenever a boy gets within ten feet of me.)

My unofficial first kiss was Peeta, but that was an accident when we were kids horsing around in his family’s bakery. Neither of us talks about it, ever. It doesn’t count, and it’s best forgotten. Only Madge knows about it, and I swore her to secrecy on the life of her piano.

My official first kiss was Gale, but I also don’t like to talk about that because I only kissed him in a bid for petty revenge after Madge and I got into an argument about something neither of us even remembers anymore. Whatever it was, it got me mad enough to purposely seek out Gale, whom I knew Madge liked. Bitchiest move I ever made, never to be repeated.

Then there was Michetto, the middle Mellark son, and the few disastrous weeks of our relationship, which I put an end to not even two months ago. The most we ever did was make out, and every time one of us tried to have a serious conversation, the other would change the subject. Messy, to say the least.

Through it all, Madge has been by my side, to giggle and to commiserate with me about boys. She’s always been my better half, and I can count on her to tell me if I’m being irrational, or if something is a bad idea, or if I should take the plunge and go for it. I try to imagine what Madge would tell me about the Cato situation.

_Irrational? Yes, so irrational. Worst thing you could do right now._

_Bad idea? Yes, such a bad idea. You don’t need any more complications._

_Go for it? ...Maybe._

By the time Thresh comes to change shifts with me, I still have no clue whatsoever what I’m going to do about Cato.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I sucked at physics in high school. No idea how flotation works.
> 
> There isn’t going to be a oneshot contest this time around, but if you’re reading this story, I hope you’ll pleasepleaseplease pretty please consider commenting anyway. <3 I love responding to commenters, and I’d be lying if I said readers’ comments don’t influence where I take the story, or encourage me to write faster. *hint hint nudge nudge* Also, it’ll make me feel better about waiting 3.5 hours for a tow truck yesterday, because I am a derp and I messed up with giving my location to the dispatcher. *shameless guilt tripping*
> 
> Thank you for reading, and until the next (hopefully soon) update!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to Little_Miss_Mayhem for commenting, as usual. :)
> 
> News about the “oneshot” won by a FFN reader at the end!
> 
> Now, without further ado, I give you...The Awkward Chapter.

We establish a new world order over breakfast. From now on, Finch is the first person to go to with injuries and other medical concerns. Lothar and Franzi, who built the sled, are responsible for maintaining it during breaks and coming up with ways to improve it when we stop at night. Vidal is officially in charge of food prep, and since he can’t walk during the day, he’ll take care of any repairs, mendings, and other small tasks that he can work on while sitting in the sled. And so on. Responsibilities are divvied among those with the ability and skill to handle them. The changes go over without any hiccups, and my shoulders feel pounds lighter.

The weight comes crashing back when I spot Cato crouched by the supplies, scowling deeply. “What is it?” I ask, dread already building in my chest.

He points at one of the water canisters. “It was filled up to here last night. Now it’s down here.” It’s a significant difference.

I wasn’t the only one who realized water may soon be an issue. At dinner, Cato designated a few bottles as the only ones we were to drink from last night, and he did the same again this morning. All other water containers were not to be touched. Some of the kids thought he was being harsh, but water goes fast out here, divided among twenty-four teenagers who are on the move most of the day. Until we find another source, we’re only drinking what must be drunk.

Now, somebody is siphoning water.

“Are you sure it didn’t happen while we were eating just now?”

Cato shakes his head. “No one went anywhere near the sled during breakfast. I was watching. And I checked the water last night right before our watch.”

“Maybe one of the other people on watch saw someone moving around,” I suggest.

We split up and pull aside the other six who had shifts last night. They all claim they didn’t see anything. I wonder if one of them might be lying. Maybe they fell asleep and don’t want to say. It definitely didn’t happen during my shift—

Shit. Actually, it could have. Cato and I were arguing for a while. We may not have noticed someone getting up and sneaking over to the sled. I look at him wearily. “Well, we suck.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whoever it was might have taken the water while we were talking last night.”

Cato’s expression blanks. “Shit. We do suck.”

“And since we didn’t see anything, there isn’t much else we can do. Let’s just remind everyone about the rationing, and why we’re rationing, when we stop again tonight, and the people on watch can keep a particular eye on the sled.”

We pack up camp and head out. As always, I’m at the front with Ced. Unlike yesterday, Cato rejoins us, and all is well in the world again. The kids behind us chatter contentedly, sounding well-rested and fed, but I wonder morbidly how long it will last. I can’t believe this is only our third day in a two month-long journey. I take a moment to silently curse whoever didn’t send the hovercraft from Thirteen that Dad said might come for us. Upon thinking about Dad, I feel a pang of homesickness. Instinctively, I reach out to stroke Cedric’s hair.

He looks up at me. “What is it?”

“Nothing. You’re just too adorable.” I pinch his cheek. And that’s when I realize how clean his face is. Much too clean for him to have just wiped his face with his shirt—it’s been scrubbed squeaky clean. But the water thief can’t be Cedric. He was practically lying on my feet last night, when Cato and I were fighting. I would have noticed if he’d gotten up. “Ced, how did you wash your face?”

Cato looks over sharply.

Cedric blinks owlishly. “With water?”

“Where did you get the water?”

He turns red. Bright red. Way redder than I’ve ever seen him. “I can’t tell you.”

“Ced—”

“I can’t! I promised! And it’s embarrassing,” he moans.

“For you, or for someone else?”

Thanks to his cheeks, I’m discovering entirely new shades of crimson. “Both,” Ced mumbles.

Right, then. I look at Cato. “Can you take the GPS for a moment?” He nods. Cedric clutches the device closer, but when Cato raises an eyebrow—really, that’s all it takes, I’m envious—my brother relents. “C’mere, Ced.” I pull him off to the side so that the rest of the pack can pass us. “Okay,” I say quietly. “Tell me what happened.”

“I can’t,” he whines.

“Cedric, Cato explained last night why we’re having such a tight grip on the water supply. You’re so smart, you know what will happen if we run out. We all suffer. If someone is stealing water, you shouldn’t protect them.”

He wrings his hands. “But...she didn’t want to steal it. She just...had to.”

“Cedric,” I prod gently, “who is ‘she’?”

He looks at me miserably. “Promise you won’t get mad at her.”

“I can’t promise that if I don’t know why she took the water without permission. But,” I add, seeing him about to shut me down, “if she does have a good reason, I will hear her out, and I promise to react fairly. Is that good enough?”

Cedric anxiously gnaws on his lip. “I guess… I won’t tell you what happened. You’ll have to ask her for details.”

“That’s fine.”

“And I only took the water from her because she had a bit extra, and she was going to dump it otherwise,” he says defensively.

“I understand.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. At last, he confesses, “It was Jean.”

Jean? Little Jean from District 8, who’s scared of everything? She stole the water? I struggle to reconcile myself with the idea. “Jean,” I repeat.

“That’s all I’m telling you!” Cedric runs back to the front of the pack.

I follow at a more sedate pace. On my way, I pass the cluster of younger kids. I force myself not to turn and seek out Jean. I need to think. Why would she take water? Was she thirsty? But Cedric said she was planning on dumping the extra. Was she cleaning herself? That would explain Cedric’s embarrassment. I feel irritated at this possibility. We need that water for drinking and cooking. We can’t all go around having sponge baths. I mean, I feel gross, too, but I’m not planning on washing—because I _can’t_ —until we find another river, or a pond, or something.

Cedric has snatched back the GPS from Cato and is staring determinedly at the screen, refusing to look at me. Cato eyes me questioningly, and I mouth _later._

We take our noon break, munching on apples since they’ll spoil much sooner than the non-perishables, so no point in preserving them. Cato figures it’s later. “What did you find out?”

I wipe juice from my mouth. “Ced says he got the water from Jean.”

“The pipsqueak from Eight?”

“Don’t call her that. Yeah, I couldn’t believe it, either.” Jean is sitting with Thierry and Marilou, but while the other two are chatting away, she sits hunched over, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m going to talk to her.” He starts to follow me. “No, you stay here. You’ll frighten the bejeezus out of her.”

“Fine.” He watches me go, zigzagging around other kids until I’m beside Jean.

“Hey, can I talk to you?” I ask her. Jean pales, but she gets up and walks with me a small distance from the rest of the group. No one pays attention to us except Cato. “Jean, Cedric told me—”

She bursts into tears. I’m taken aback, but instinct kicks in, and I hold her close. She leans in, weeping. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do!”

“What’s wrong?”

Sobs interrupt her every few words, but I eventually get the story out of her. Late yesterday evening, before she went to bed, she went to use the bathroom and saw blood in her underwear. Jean panicked at first, thinking she was dying, but after a few moments, she realized it was probably her first period. Foolishly, she hoped it would go away, and that’s why she didn’t tell anyone. When she used the bathroom again later that night, she realized there was even more blood. She wanted to clean herself up, so she filled an empty bottle with water so she could sneak away first thing in the morning, since she was afraid to stay out too long alone in the dark. (This all happened during Duff and Thierry’s watch, and she claims both had dozed off when she got up. I’ll be having words with those two.) Before breakfast started, Jean went off to a secluded spot to try to clean up.

And that’s when Cedric, who was looking for his own place to pee, stumbled across her. The poor boy was so bewildered and horrified, he just squeezed his eyes shut and nodded to whatever Jean said and asked.

“Jean, why didn’t you tell me this earlier? There were plenty of opportunities after breakfast.”

She hiccups. “Because you said everyone should talk to Finch first about medical stuff. But I don’t know Finch, I didn’t want to tell her.”

Right, that did happen. My bad. “From now on, if you feel uncomfortable approaching others, you can still talk to me, even if I tell the group there are other people designated for certain things. Okay?” She sniffs and nods. “Now, uh, I take it you know how periods work?” Another nod. Thank God I don’t have to explain _that._

Unfortunately, I know there are no feminine hygiene products among the supplies. There never are. When tributes arrive at the Capitol, the girls are given injections containing some sort of birth control, which is supposed to last several weeks so that we don’t have to deal with menstruating during the Games. It’s not for our sake they do this, but for the audience. Just as nobody wants to watch tributes use the bathroom, nobody wants to watch girls dealing with their periods. So, no tampons or pads. Jean clearly didn’t get one of these injections; I’m guessing the Capitol only gives the shots to girls who have already begun menstruating. I’ll need to survey the other younger girls later to see if they might encounter similar problems in the future. Hopefully, any more periods will be kept at bay, what with all the stress and our poor diets.

Not that stress and poor diets are necessarily the lesser of the two evils.

“Let’s go back to the others. I’ll talk to Finch, and we’ll see if we can figure something out to help you, yeah?” Jean is noticeably less unhappy when I sit her back down with Thierry and Marilou. Cato looks like he wants to know what went down between us, but he can wait. I go to Finch first. “What can we do for someone with a period?” I ask without any pleasantries.

She swallows her bite of apple. “We don’t have pads. We’d have to make some. Probably reusable ones.”

“Why reusable?”

“Where would we dispose of them?” Finch questions. “And we only have so much material. We can’t throw it all away.”

“How do you propose they be washed?” I counter.

“Ember,” Finch says solemnly, “if we don’t find another water source soon, we’re going to have bigger things to worry about than washing pads.”

My throat is already feeling dry. I haven’t had any water since this morning. The parchness of my mouth drives home her quiet assertion. “You’re right. Can you fix something out of bandages for Jean really quickly? I’m going to see what we can do about finding water.”

Finch nods and gets to work. I head for Ced, so we can look at the map for water sources, but Cato intercepts me first. “So why did she take the water?”

I blow a strand of hair away from my face, trying to ignore how greasy it’s getting. “For cleaning.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m going to talk to her.”

I grab his arm to stop him, though we both know he could easily shake me off if he wanted. “She shouldn’t have taken it, I know, and I’m not saying she was right, but I understand why she did it.”

“Okay. Why did she do it?”

“Her period,” I say bluntly.

Cato wrinkles his nose. “Seriously? She’s, what, twelve?”

“Thirteen, and either age is plenty old enough. Now, unless you want details, you’re going to have to trust me and let this go. She didn’t even take that much water, and she won’t do it again.”

So, like every single man I know when confronted with womanly concerns, Cato readily drops it. “If you’re sure. We need to get everyone going again.”

“I have to talk to Ced first. I want to see if the GPS or map says there’s a river in the vicinity, and I’d like to travel alongside it if possible. We can’t count on stumbling across a pond or creek every few days.”

I find Ced. He unfolds the map and points. “There is a river to the south. It runs east for a while, and it doesn’t get too close to any of the Districts towns or settlements. If we make a small detour, we could probably reach it sometime tomorrow.”

“How far out of our way will it take us, if we follow the river instead?”

Ced hums in thought. “Not much at all. The slight inconvenience would definitely be outweighed by having a nearby water source.”

I turn to Cato. “I agree with Cedric. I think we should go to the river.” Cato does as well. It’s settled. We change course.

And when we at last reach the river the next day, the first thing everyone wants to do is bathe. The people look like they might revolt if we say no. Cato seems like he’s going to deny them anyway, determined to keep marching. But me? I feel disgusting. Besides, it’s close enough to evening that we won’t get much more distance behind us, so we might as well stop.

“Don’t tell me you enjoy being filthy,” I tease him as everyone runs around, trying to set up camp as fast as possible so they can get in the river sooner.

“Of course I don’t,” he responds. “But aren’t you the one who wants to get to Thirteen ASAP? And what about the Capitol? They could sneak up on us while we’re all in the water.”

I have been feeling a false sense of security lately, from the absence of other human life. Now that Cato brings up the Capitol’s pursuit, I wonder, _are_ they still pursuing us? If they really wanted to, they could have captured us all days ago. With their hovercrafts, they can catch up easily, and they have plenty of men to search for us on foot if they don’t see us overhead. “Maybe we’ve been de-prioritized,” I muse. “If the rebellion is underway, then the Capitol has other problems on their plate, more important than chasing two dozen teenagers through the wilderness.”

Cato grumbles about how he still doesn’t like it. I leave him to his sulking so I can hunt, and then, at last, at last, at last, get clean. The boys and girls have split up so we’re on different sides of a bend in the river, with foliage conveniently obscuring each group from the other. I kick off my shoes and am about to pull my shirt over my head when I realize not all the girls are in the water. Some of the more self-confident ones have stripped in seconds and are washing themselves unabashedly. Others, Finch and Jean among them, are lingering awkwardly on the shore, still clad in all their clothes. “Is something the matter?” I query.

“No,” Finch says tightly, refusing to look at any of the girls already in the river.

Ah. They don’t want to get naked in front of everyone. Understandable, since I’m no exhibitionist myself. “Hey. We’re all girls. We’ve seen it all before. No one is judging anyone here. Besides, you don’t have to completely strip down if you don’t want to.” To make my point, I quickly remove the rest of my clothes except my underwear and bra—no one’s watching, eyes are politely averted, nothing to be embarrassed about, _totally fine_ —and wade in. They’ll come in sooner or later. Their desire to be clean will overcome their modesty.

I’m right, of course.

We pass some soap around, and I delight in scrubbing the dirt and sweat off my skin and massaging the oil from my hair. I do enjoy being clean; I’m not a heathen. I feel like a new person, and I’m practically whistling as I pick up my discarded clothes so I can wash them. Afterwards, I don my tank top again, but leave off the rest so they can dry.

“You’re going back to camp dressed like that?” Finch asks incredulously.

“Well...yeah. I’ve gone swimming with friends at home, and this is basically what we girls wear outside the water.” I might be showing off a lot more skin than I usually choose to flaunt, but it’s not like I’m exposing anything that shouldn’t be exposed.

“But...the guys will be at camp.”

“And they’ll behave themselves, or they’ll have me to answer to,” I say matter-of-factly. I notice that Finch has washed her clothes, too. If she puts it all back on, she’ll be uncomfortable in her wet clothing, but if she’s going to be even more uncomfortable _not_ wearing it, then so be it. “You don’t have to follow my example. I’m just thinking, we’re stuck out here with the same twenty-three other people for the next two months. We gotta let go at some point.”

“I don’t ‘gotta’ do anything,” Finch grouses. But, with a pained look on her face, she bundles her sodden pants, shirt, and jacket in her arms and doesn’t move to put them on top of her underthings. None of the other girls, from Rue to Glimmer, seems to have any reservations to the same degree as Finch, and seeing that the two of us are far from alone in our half-dressed state helps Finch relax. Besides, I wager the guys aren’t going to be any more clothed than us—at least, the guys who bothered to wash their clothes.

We return to camp, and I learn that whoever assembled the tribute outfits this year is evidently a boxer person. Beside me, Finch’s face is as red as her hair. But I’ve seen Gale Hawthorne, all three Mellark boys, and Finnick Odair in pretty much just their underwear at some point in my life, so I’m mostly unfazed.

(I notice that Cato has yet to return.)

Cedric is helping Vidal with dinner. I spot a crumpled bundle of clothing near my brother, shake my head, and go sort it out. Cedric waves as I approach, and Vidal smiles politely before returning to his work. I shake out and stretch Ced’s clothes flat on the grass, then mine.

“What did you do to your bandages?” Finch asks Vidal, her shrewd eyes narrowed at his less-than-pristine wrappings.

“Um, they got wet.”

Finch looks quite unimpressed as she goes to fetch more bandages. I catch Marvel eyeing her legs as she crosses camp. Marvel spots me watching him checking out Finch, and he grins cheekily before returning to whatever task he was working on. He knows her name now, because of my announcement of her promotion to head medic, but I haven’t seen him try anything yet. Then again, it’s been less than a day. I’m curious to see what’ll happen, but I also resolve to give Finch a heads-up if it looks like he’ll attempt something too forward.

The last few stragglers stroll back into camp, Cato among them. My face warms a little as I think, _Maybe not quite the same as swimming around with the boys back home._ Gale and the Mellark boys are probably the most attractive guys in Twelve, but growing up with them has made me almost immune to their charms. The greatest reaction even Michetto ever got out of me were a few metaphorical butterflies.

Cato fully-clothed creates a strange, unfamiliar tugging sensation in my belly. Cato in boxers—and still wet from the river—generates enough heat for me to live up to my name. I already know what he looks like shirtless, thanks to when I washed his shirt the other night, but it’s different when he’s pantsless on top of that.

I sneak a glance and confirm something I’ve secretly been suspecting for a while: he really doesn’t have a single ounce of excess fat. It’s either muscle or more muscle. Not even Finnick is that built. The Victor from Four is more the lean muscle kind of guy. Cato is just... _mmffff._ I force my mind away from the topic and focus on taking inventory of the supplies.

Vidal announces that dinner is ready, and he’s swarmed by hungry teenagers as he begins to portion out the food. As usual, I take my time getting there so I’m at the end of the line, where I can make sure everyone else gets their fair share first. And as usual, Cedric beelines so he’s at the front. Smiling, I shake my head as I watch my brother squabble with Ardi over who gets the first plate.

“What’s so funny?”

I turn my head so that Cato, who’s right behind me, is just within my line of sight. “I’m amused by how my brother is a bottomless eating machine, yet he’s still such a tiny shrimp.” Ced is the same height as Rue, a fact I’m sure must drive him to wit’s end, considering how it’s universally agreed that Rue is like a tiny fairy in stature. “I have no idea where he puts it all, because it definitely isn’t going toward his height.”

“It’s probably going into that oversized brain of his.”

“Oversized?” I pretend to be angry on Ced’s behalf, but I’ve come to learn that Cato is almost physically incapable of giving a straightforward compliment or praise. It’s just the way he is, I suppose. How frequently was he praised at the Career Academy, if at all? I’ve heard that the Academy in Two is especially austere and military-like.

“Your brother has a way of looking at you like he knows what you’re thinking.”

Cedric does? I’ve never gotten that impression. I know Mom has that “all-knowing gaze,” and so does Dad sometimes, when he’s not being _too_ Dad. Rain also has it, or at least she did when we were kids. I guess Cedric may be starting to develop “the look” as well. “You don’t think that’s a good thing, I take it?”

“There are some things in my head that I sincerely hope your little brother doesn’t know about.”

I have no idea what kind of expression I have on, but it makes Cato crack up. “Do _I_ want to know about the things in your head?” I ask wryly.

He eyes me appraisingly. “Maybe not yet.”

Suddenly, the clothes I have on no longer feel as conservative as I thought. And Cato is standing close enough to me that I can feel his body heat. I nibble on my lip, casting my gaze every which way except towards him, and I hastily change the subject. “What do you miss about being at home?” I blurt out.

The rapid change in topic throws him a little. “You mean besides a bed and real food and indoor plumbing?” He stares into the distance as he thinks. “My sister, I suppose.”

“Your sister, Vespasia?”

Cato snorts. “God, no, Vespasia hates my guts. I mean my little sister, Laelia.”

“She’s eight, you said?”

“Yeah. And she thinks she can get away with anything, if she flashes a pretty smile and looks cute.” Cato scratches his neck and grins, a touch sheepishly. “She’s right. It works best on my father and my brother Tiberius.”

I raise my eyebrows. “But it doesn’t affect you at all, does it?”

“Not in the least,” he says loftily, but the smile playing on his lips tells me otherwise.

I laugh quietly. It’s the same with Summer in my family. She’s got Dad wrapped around her little pinky. I’m sure it would be the same with Ash, if he weren’t the way he is. Cedric, on the other hand, has always found her to be the pest who ousted him from his rightful place as the baby of the family. “There’s quite an age difference between her and your older brother, isn’t there?”

“Seventeen years. Lae was a surprise. But if I recall correctly, there’s a similar age difference between _your_ little sister and older brother.”

I nod, a bit sullenly. “The five of us were all born when it suited Snow’s purposes.” If the ability to choose hadn’t been taken from them, I’m sure Mom and Dad wouldn’t have started having kids until much later than they actually did—Ash and Rain came when they were only eighteen, and they were terrified by Snow’s quiet threats concerning his Victors’ ring. And I think they would probably have stopped having kids a little before Summer was born, when they were thirty-four and ready to finish up the Abernathy family, but for Snow’s determination to get one last baby Mockingjay before Mom became too old.

In another universe, Ced and I might be Mom and Dad’s only kids. A little scary to think about. The five of us siblings have never all been home—home being Mom and Dad’s house in Twelve—at the same time, but I can’t imagine what it’s like not to have a big family.

Cato’s stare is hard. “Snow _told_ your parents when to have kids?”

“Whenever the Capitol needed something new and cute to coo over,” I say flatly.

“I’ve never heard of anything like that in Two.”

“Well, no one in Two has ever been a co-Victor, or married their co-Victor, or depended on their fabricated romance to survive. And I’m pretty sure Snow just flat-out hates my family.”

“Even your sister? The Gamemaker one?”

I scoff. “Oh, I’m sure he _especially_ hates her. Now, at least. I’m not entirely sure how he felt about Rain before this year’s Games.” Now I’m regretting not paying more attention to Rain’s letters and phone calls home all these years. Of course she would never communicate anything obvious, but she, like Mom, is adept at slipping in information between the lines. If Snow hated her, Rain would have managed to get the message across to our parents somehow. I’m the obtuse one in the family.

Thinking about Rain hurts my heart, which is why I’ve done my best not to do it these last few days.

“You okay?”

I look up at Cato. “I’m still kicking myself for hating Rain.”

He looks thoughtful. “So you hated her because you thought she was genuinely siding with the Capitol, despite everything that’s happened to your family. Which was exactly the impression she was trying to give to everyone, to the Capitol, to Snow. And if you, her own sister, fell for it, then that means it worked. And because her ruse worked, that’s how she’s managed to survive all these years in the heart of the Capitol. Your sister probably didn’t _want_ you to hate her, but your hatred may have strengthened her act and helped convince people who needed to be convinced. Would you still be kicking yourself if you knew that hating her might have helped her stay alive? Because that is a very real possibility.” Those blue eyes look at me steadily; although they’re a cool, icy hue, they make me feel warm.

I shake my head slowly. “No. I wouldn’t be.” I doubt that my resentment towards Rain alone would have kept her safe for so many years in the Capitol. But maybe, as Cato says, it played a part. I’ll have to content myself with that thought.

“Uh, do you two want to eat or not?” Vidal holds up the last plates. We’re the only ones left in line.

Cato and I take the dishes. When I find a fairly secluded spot in the camp to sit, he joins me. “Are you going to stop wallowing in self-hatred now?” he asks.

“Yes. I am.” I pick at a piece of squirrel. “Thanks for that, uh, talk. I really do feel better. This is normally the part where I would hug you, but we’re both kind of half-naked right now, so…”

A corner of his mouth quirks as he blatantly rakes his gaze from my head to my toes. “I wouldn’t complain.”

I make a face at him. “You’re incorrigible.”

For a few moments, Cato makes me forget. Forget my unjustified hatred toward my sister. Forget that we’re a group of kids on the run from the Capitol. Forget that there is no guarantee we’ll all make it to District 13.

Forget that while I’m free, the sister who broke me out of the arena is still in the Capitol, and I have no idea how she’s doing or if she’s even alive. 

* * *

The silence is driving her insane. Day in, day out—she doesn’t even know when it’s nighttime anymore—all she has to keep her company are the sound of her own breathing and the echoes of her feet as she paces (she hasn’t resorted to talking to herself, yet). That, and the not-so-hidden cameras that monitor her every move, discomfiting her to the point that she won’t even use the bathroom anymore unless it’s absolutely necessary. If this paranoia, this unceasing knowledge of being watched, is even a fraction of what the tributes feel in the arena, then she despises her career all the more.

Is this Snow’s plan? To drive her mad by trapping her with her dark thoughts and her demons, without him having to lift a finger?

Sometimes, the only way she is sure that she’s still alive and not in some kind of purgatory composed of white walls, white floors, white lights, white everything is when one of the Peacekeepers opens the concealed door—its edges are hidden on her side, and it succeeds in making her feel even more trapped—to bring in her meal twice or thrice a day. She tried to keep track of time at first, but they took her watch, everything she had on her, when they put her in here.

They even took… She shakes her head. No point crying over it, she tells herself. Tears won’t help her. She’ll just have to trust she’ll get it back one day.

If Seneca wants to give it back to her, that is.

She stares miserably at her barely touched plate of stew. The food isn’t bad—she’s quite surprised they’re even feeding her, to be honest—but she has no appetite these days, for understandable reasons, she thinks.

But Seneca would want her to eat. So she does.

They manhandled her out of the Gamemaker headquarters almost immediately after she shut down the arena (piercing blue eyes stared at her in shock, uncomprehending as she was “escorted” away), so she has no idea what happened after that. Someone interrogated her in this cell, but they gave away just as little information as she did, which is to say, none at all.

Did Mom and Dad manage to escape with Summer and the other mentors who were in-the-know? Plutarch promised that everyone would be flown out of the Capitol before anyone realized there was even a problem with the Games. All she has is his word that she isn’t an orphan.

Did Cinna and Portia keep their heads low, as she begged them, and avoid Snow’s suspicion? She wouldn’t be able to bear it if they suffered because of her, when they did nothing wrong except be her friend. But in Snow’s book, that itself might count as an act of treason nowadays.

Most importantly, are Ember and Cedric alive? Did Ember understand her clues? Did Mom and Dad tell her what to do? Did she and their little brother get the box in the Cornucopia? Have they left the arena yet? Because all of this, _everything,_ was for them, and if she has been arrested for treason, only for them to be killed after all, she thinks she might die of heartbreak.

Might. There is a possibility she will not, because she has something else to live for...if Snow doesn’t take it from her as well.

_He won’t,_ she tells herself. Snow likes Seneca too much. The president may want to punish her, but surely not at the expense of his current favorite. Although, who knows what kind of poison Snow might be whispering into her fiance’s ear?

Perhaps Seneca hates her now. (Her heart clenches.) Perhaps he doesn’t understand why she had to do what she did, why she “betrayed” the country, why she lied to him. And honestly, she doesn’t know why he _would_ understand. She’s lived in the Capitol for ten years. She knows how Capitolites think, how they’re raised to think, how they’re taught to think. It’s not Seneca’s fault that this specious, gilded society is all he has ever known. Any attempts she’s made in the past to broaden his worldview have been met with mixed success at best, partially due to her reluctance to reveal too much of her hand, partially due to his reluctance to think ill of his homeland, of which he’s finally near the top because he’s worked so hard for so long.

There is no reason he would understand the reasons behind her actions, and she cannot fault him for it. _Please, please, Seneca, don’t hate me. I can’t lose you._ Because even if her plan worked, even if she and everyone else in on it did everything right, even if Ember and Cedric made it out, even if Mom and Dad and Summer are on their way to safety, she doesn’t want to lose him.

She wonders what he’s doing now, her poor, darling, ignorant fiance. Snow would have figured out in moments that Seneca had no idea what she was up to, so there would be no reason to imprison him as well. That means Seneca must be a free man, able to go about his day as he pleases.

The Games are effectively cancelled, if she managed to pull that off properly, so he won’t be at work. She doubts he is visiting friends; the two of them, although their jobs require a certain amount of charisma and amiability, especially his as Head Gamemaker, in truth prefer solitude to company. Seneca can make friends as easily as breathing, and when called to task, he can be a showman to rival Caesar Flickerman. But given the choice, he, like her, prefers to stay at home and pursue his personal hobbies and interests.

As for herself, she spent her entire childhood with her life on display, same as everyone else in her family. Seneca’s lack of interest in garnering public attention, beyond what is necessary for his career, suits her fine.

That’s it, she decides. Seneca must be at home right now, in their penthouse that’s spartan by Capitol standards but comfortably furnished according to both their relatively simple tastes. Maybe he’s eating his own dinner now—she isn’t worried about him feeding himself, he’s always been the better cook between the two of them. Maybe he’s watching the news, trying to piece together the puzzle she’s left behind. Maybe he’s reading a book, in a futile effort to distract himself from the conundrum that his life has become. Maybe he’s sketching, as he always seems to do when he can get his hand on a drawing implement and a suitable medium (many a high-end restaurant has been chagrined to discover his ink doodles on their fine tablecloths).

Maybe he’s standing in the room that they’ve been redecorating for several weeks, a project that’s brought more light and happiness into his eyes than any arena he’s helped design. A project that may never be completed. A room that may never be used.

Perhaps he hates her now because of that alone.

And she whispers (because this doesn’t count as talking to _herself_ ), “But not you. He’ll never hate you.” Then Rain Abernathy lies down on her narrow bed and tries to fall into an uneasy sleep, with her hand splayed protectively over her abdomen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oneshot contest news! I’ve finished writing the oneshot according to the randomly chosen FFN winner’s prompt, and...turns out it’s 20k words and is going to be a threeshot. Surprise! The prompt essentially was What would happen with Ember and Cato if they’d played in the 74th Hunger Games as planned? So yeah, that little plot bunny took me places.
> 
> I’ve posted the first installment of the threeshot. The title is “A Game Played Beautifully By Children,” and somehow it ended up being told entirely from Cato’s POV. Fair warning, it is quite angsty and sad, but that’s mostly in the two later parts. The first part is pretty tolerable and ends on a high note, and the story is written in such a way that if you want, you can stop at the end of part one and pretend the more angsty things following it never happen. :D
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who reads and comments! I love hearing from you guys, and feedback helps me write better and faster. *subtle hint*


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took longer than I expected to post. The holidays have been hectic! Also, I saw Star Wars twice, and now I'm Reylo trash. :3

The ring taunts him. The way the diamond gaily coruscates is like a mocking laugh, upbraiding him for being so foolish and blind. Seneca watches Snow turn it around in his hand as if admiring it. “A lovely ring,” the president comments, “if a bit old-fashioned.”

“It was my mother’s,” Seneca replies by way of explanation. The ring isn’t flashy and set with a huge, colorful gemstone as is the current fashion, but he likes the classic and timeless cut, the simple band of rose-gold, the minuscule sapphires elegantly arranged around the centerpiece.

_She_ had liked it, too.

“All the more important I return it to you,” Snow says, but he makes no move to hand it over. “I took the liberty of claiming it from its previous owner on your behalf. She neither wanted nor deserved it, as we now know.”

_No, she loves me, I know she does,_ Seneca wants to yell, but he bites his tongue. It’s become clear over the last few days that he knows nothing at all.

“You have my sympathies, Seneca. Your fiancee maintained the ruse of being an upstanding citizen for years so that she could desecrate the Games, and she tricked you into believing she held affection for you so that she could use your power and influence to carry out her plans. At least her true character was exposed before you sounded the wedding bells.”

_She loves me._

(How often must a lie be told before it becomes the truth?)

Snow continues, “I must say, I liked your previous paramour—Drusilla, was it?—a great deal more, and we both know how ill-suited she was for you. And that scandal Miss Drusilla had with those Victors? _Tsk, tsk._ It seems to me, Seneca, that you’re simply not meant for anything but the bachelor life.”

He isn’t meant for anything but life with _her._ Or so he thought.

When the president at last holds out the ring, it takes Seneca a moment to recognize the action, and he accepts the precious item with a mumbled “thank you, sir.”

“I will not stop you if, despite my advice, you choose to pursue other relationships in the future,” Snow says magnanimously. “But do take care to make sure that anyone else to whom you may give that ring is actually worthy of it.”

Seneca feels many things for the president. Respect, fear, intimidation, a desire to please. For the first time, he feels hatred.

“I am sure you are wondering how your ex-fiancee is doing, since we took her in for questioning.” Seneca’s hands grow clammy. “Rest assured, she has not been harmed.”

What? How can that be? Seneca is a Gamemaker, the Head Gamemaker; he knows how cruel the Capitol can be.

Snow’s eyes turn even colder. “I demonstrate this kindness to her only because I like and pity you so much, Seneca. And only because you are so certain that the child Miss Abernathy carries is yours.”

Seneca can’t help thinking about those early mornings, as the rosy hues of sunrise seep through their bedroom window while they laze about in bed before they must get up for work. The light always bathes Rain in an unearthly halo, calling to Seneca’s mind the angels that were featured in religions banned long ago. In the last few weeks—before the Games, and everything went to hell—he has taken to skimming his fingers, his lips, the tip of his nose along the gentle, growing curve of her usually flat abdomen. And every morning, though she laughs at him, though they both know it is futile for some time yet, he presses his ear to her belly, as if expecting to hear movement, a heartbeat.

All this, she gave up without a second thought.

His child. His _daughter,_ according to the doctors. In the hands of Snow’s men, who know that her mother is a traitor to the Capitol. Is Snow truly abstaining from harsher methods of interrogation for his child’s sake? The president has proven in the past that something as inconsequential as a pregnancy does not deter him from getting what he wants. And Seneca is sure Snow wants to punish Rain for singlehandedly ruining this year’s Games—perhaps even ruining all of Panem as they know it, although such a thought is itself treasonous.

“You _are_ sure it is yours, Seneca?” Snow prods, as he has many times in the last few days.

“Yes, sir. I have no doubt.” Indeed, he does not. Seneca may no longer trust Rain, no longer have faith in her loyalties. But he believes in her fidelity to him.

Seneca has known Rain for six years. He was twenty-four and the rookie Gamemaker, and still together with the aforementioned Drusilla. She was sixteen, still in school, and too young and naive and childish for his tastes. As the lowest in the Gamemaker hierarchy, he had been sent to meet Miss Lorraine Abernathy at the academy she attended, to interview and appraise her for potential as a future Gamemaker.

(It turns out that Snow had already decided long before that she would most certainly be one of them, and Seneca was sent as a mere formality.)

For the first few years of their acquaintance, then their friendship—during which Seneca, for many complicated reasons, broke it off with Drusilla, least among them being The Victor Scandal—he appreciated Rain’s intelligence, creativity, and ingenuity first and foremost. It was only after she graduated from the academy, officially started apprenticing under him as Gamemaker, and began dating an utter moron who was _far_ beneath her that Seneca had realized that first, Rain was no longer a child, and second, his affections for her ran deeper than he thought.

And it turned out that Rain had been infatuated with him for years already (“I was a teenaged girl. All it takes for a teenaged girl to think herself in love are a pretty face and sweet words. But what really did me in was the day you played my knight in shining armor. Remember that day?”), but had given up on ever catching his eye. Never in the three years they were together had he ever seen her batting an eyelash at another man—she told him she didn’t find the artificial fashion of the Capitol attractive, and she thanked God that the most he did was style his beard strangely (“But don’t change it just because my sense of style is so passe. It suits you. Very intimidating and fierce.”)—and she’d had several opportunities to move on to men wealthier, more powerful than him. Every time, she rejected them immediately and never gave them a second thought.

No, Rain Abernathy has never cheated on him, and her child is undoubtedly his.

_But adolescent puppy crushes aside, not cheating on your partner doesn’t necessarily mean you’re in love with him,_ a dark voice that sounds like Snow’s whispers in his mind. _She played you. She used you. You were a tool._

_Rain Abernathy is a traitor._

_Rain Abernathy is a liar._

_Rain Abernathy has been acting the upstanding citizen all these years. Why wouldn’t she also have been acting the woman in love?_

_Rain Abernathy chose her siblings over your child._

_Rain Abernathy loves her family so much, how can there possibly be room in her heart for you?_

“Just as well. I suspect beating Miss Abernathy would not extract any information, nor would any other physical methods,” Snow says bluntly. “I pride myself on my ability to determine whether a particular course of action would be wasteful. Torturing Miss Abernathy would be wasteful. Her mental fortitude is, as you know, exceptionally strong. Add to that her motive for her actions—her love for her family—and she will not break. Besides, Plutarch is the one who fled the Capitol, not her, so we know which one of them possesses more information.”

In spite of all his doubts concerning her affections for him, Seneca wishes it were Rain who escaped.

“And we still have uses for Miss Abernathy.” Snow smiles, without any feeling. “Her mother, father, and youngest sister have fled with Plutarch, along with several other traitorous Victors. I wonder what her parents would do, how they would influence this rebellion, for the sake of their daughter and unborn grandchild. Especially if young Ember and Cedric are dead.”

That startles Seneca. “They’re dead? The tributes were killed in the arena?” He has never met Rain’s younger brother, and he only met Ember that one time, during her illegal conversation with Rain. Ember Abernathy did not leave him with a pleasant impression of her (screaming at her sister for daring to be happy: childish, envious, begrudging), even less so after her training session (burning a dummy clearly meant to be her sister’s stand-in: petty, irrational, borderline sociopathic). But Rain adores her younger sister, and his fiancee has spoken with him about Ember the most of all her siblings, even more than her own twin (the alcoholic addict; they’d argued over whether he would be allowed near their daughter after her birth). He gets the impression that, despite the six-year age difference, Rain and Ember were close before the elder came to the Capitol all those years ago, so it bewilders Seneca that Ember is the sibling who most turned against Rain. Hated her, if it is possible for anyone to hate Rain Abernathy.

And yet, despite it all, Rain loves Ember. Rain loves her family.

_There is no room left for you._

“No, they’re not dead,” Snow answers, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “But they will be.”

* * *

The ground trembles beneath our feet, and I fear the worst. The Gamemakers are somehow managing to cause an earthquake this far out. The Capitol is bombing us. The world is ending.

“That’s a quarry,” Cato says in disbelief.

I look to him. “A quarry? Like where you mine stone?”

“Yeah. We often use controlled explosives to clear away rock we don’t want.” He’s still staring in the direction the great boom came from, and I catch the flash of emotion across his face before he masks it: longing. Homesickness. “We must be close to District 2.”

“Ced did say Two was due south of our original route,” I muse, “and we have gone south so we can stick with the river.”

His gaze snaps toward me. “You knew Two was close by and you didn’t tell me?” he demands.

My hackles rise automatically. “Sorry, did I sign some contract obligating me to tell you our precise coordinates? Do I need to look up our longitude and latitude for you?”

Cato glares at me, that homesickness still in his eyes. “You should have told me.” Before I can retort, he orders, “Let’s keep moving.” I seethe, but I can always argue with him later, when everyone isn’t watching.

For the rest of the day, I assume Cato is just stewing over not being told every little detail. In some ways, I get why he was upset. I’d want to know if we were near Twelve, and if we are co-leaders, then communication is key. But he definitely overreacted. It’s not like I was hiding information that could mean the difference between life and death, or information integral to the group’s functioning. Do I really need to tell him _everything?_ Like, _Hey, Cato, there’s a hill exactly 10.2 miles ahead of us._ Honestly.

As usual, we stop before sunset so we have time to hunt and hunker down before dark. But, unusually, Cato is holstering his firearms, instead of participating in setting up camp.

My brow furrows. “Cato, you’re not hunting with us, are you?” Swords aren’t conducive to hunting animals, and we agree that the guns should be saved for the most dangerous targets. We also don’t want unnecessary gunshots to draw unwanted attention.

“No,” he grunts, slinging on a backpack. “I’m going home.”

The blood in my veins turns to ice. My voice is pathetically small as it utters, “You’re...what?”

“Two is close. I should be able to find a town or other settlement in less than a day, possibly even the one my family lives in. You don’t need to worry about me betraying you or whatever. I’ll tell them we all split up after escaping the arena, and that I’ve been on my own.”

Don’t need to worry about betrayal. What does he call this? “You can’t just leave!”

“Who’s going to stop me?” Cato raises his eyebrows. “You?”

“ _Yes,_ ” I snarl. I will. I will stop him, the treacherous fuck. I’ll make him stay. He’s not going to turn his back on us. I won’t let him.

He sighs in exasperation, as if _I’m_ the one causing problems, and looks down at me like I’m some silly, gullible child who’s throwing a tantrum. “Ember, let’s not make this any harder than it has to be, okay? You didn’t even want me here in the first place. We’ve had some surprisingly good times these last few days—”

“‘Good times’? Is that what you call it?” I snap. “Fleeing through the wilderness from a Capitol that wants us all dead? That’s what you call a _good time?_ We’re running for our lives, Cato! District 13 is our only chance. But you’re jumping ship all of a sudden?” I don’t...I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. I thought Cato and I, we...we had an agreement, didn’t we?

“Ember, I never made any promises to go all the way to Thirteen. I said that I would work with you to help the pack survive. And I’ve done that. The first few days are always the most difficult, and I’ve helped you get through them.”

I stare at him, then I shake my head slowly. “What a typical Career,” I whisper.

Cato’s eyes harden. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know, it’s confounded me my whole life, how Careers can act like they’re the best of friends at first, but once the going gets tough, it’s everyone for themselves.”

“I was always planning on heading home once—”

“There! See? Just like a Career. Plotting from the beginning how you’re going to pretend to be friends, all the while thinking about how you can best stab the others in the back. Was that what you did, Cato? Set us all up to trust you—remember how you tried so hard to get me to trust you that first day?—so that you can see our faces at the moment we realize you were never really with us, and congratulate yourself for being so much better and cleverer than us. You make me _sick._ ”

Any vestige of sympathy or patience vanishes from his face. His fist clenches, and I brace myself for the worst. I remember how Dad pointed Cato out during training, said that Cato was the type who, after being in the Games long enough, is bound to _snap_ like a guitar string pulled too tightly _._

Cato doesn’t snap.

He smiles. But it’s not the smile he gave me when I told him he’d have to earn more kisses, or the smile when I teased him about being incorrigible. (What happened to that boy?) It’s mocking, condescending, and more suited to the Career I feared and resented before the Games. The Career I thought would kill me one day. “Ember, did you really think I was going to stick around the entire way? Thirteen is a pipe dream. It’s real, but it might as well be in another universe. Face it, there’s no way we would make it there on foot. Everyone is better off coming with me to Two, but I know how stubborn you can get, sweetheart.”

That last word, that endearment, sets me off. Only Dad is allowed to call me that, not this backstabbing little shit.

Before I know it, I’ve punched him in the face, clipping him satisfyingly on the jaw. Then, ignoring the fact that Cato outweighs me by about a hundred pounds of pure muscle and could easily snap my neck in my irrational rage, I launch myself at him. A few moments later, Thresh has to drag me bodily off Cato—who refuses to so much as give me the satisfaction of fighting back—kicking and scratching and screaming curses that I’d never use in front of Ced and the other younger kids in my right mind.

_You have me,_ he said. _You have me._ Biggest, fattest lie ever told.

When the red fades from my vision, I can assess with grim satisfaction the damage that I inflicted. Cato’s definitely going to have a bruise on that pretty face, to match the angry red lines I gifted him.

I hear Marvel speak. “Cato, man, where is this coming from?”

“What are you talking about, Marvel?”

“You, going to Two. It came out of nowhere.”

Cato shrugs, rubbing his jaw. “Not really. I always intended to go to Two, if it were feasible. It’s definitely feasible now. If you want, you can come with. I’ll vouch for you.”

Marvel hesitates, and then he shakes his head. “I’m staying.”

“Suit yourself.” Cato surveys the other kids, and I realize everyone has been watching our argument and fight. “Anyone else want to come?” Some kids fidget, but no one moves. Cato still scares some of the younger ones, and the older ones know better than to trust him. They were wiser than me in this. Not even Glimmer, when he looks her in the eye, moves to accept. He turns to his District partner. “Clove?”

She stares coolly back at him, face blank. “I’ll pass.”

“I didn’t think your loyalty to this group was stronger than to Two.”

“Please, Cato, I’m not in the least bit sentimental,” Clove sneers. “There is nothing in Two compelling me to go back. Besides, I have no desire to be shot on sight. You can get executed on your lonesome.”

“They won’t execute us.”

She snorts. “The hovercraft sent a damn strong message. And I think killing a Peacekeeper is punishable by death.”

Cato narrows his eyes. “Whatever. It’s your choice.” He steps back and addresses the group at large. “I wish you all the best of luck in reaching your destination.”

I laugh bitterly. That catches his attention. “At least try to sound sincere, _Two._ ”

His hand twitches. “I am being sincere.”

“Right. And I’m sure you’re _sincerely_ abandoning us.”

Cato looks angry. He has no right to be. None at all. _You have me._ Liar. “I could have split today, right after we heard the rock blasting. But I didn’t. I made sure you all found a campsite first.”

“Oh, how magnanimous of you! Hey, while you’re at it, can you help me get this knife out of my back?” And it isn’t one of Clove’s.

He runs his hand through his hair, jaw set stubbornly. “I need to talk to you privately, Ember,” he says gruffly.

I scoff. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I _need_ to talk to you. I’ll even let you get in a few more hits.”

Only because I want to punch him again. Maybe break his nose this time. I shake off Thresh’s restraining hand. “You have one minute before I let loose.” I can feel twenty-two pairs of eyes on our backs as we retreat out of sight and earshot.

Cato rounds on me as soon as he’s sure we have privacy. “Ember, I don’t want to part on bad terms.”

“Bad?” I chuckle mirthlessly. “Cato, this is beyond bad. This is so awful, I’m going to have to create a whole new word. _Cato_ strophic? Yes, that sounds fitting.”

_You have me._ Lies. Everything he ever said, lies.

“I’m serious, Ember,” he snaps. “Don’t tell me that if we were near Twelve, you wouldn’t want to go home.”

“Of course I want to go home!” I hiss. “But I wouldn’t, and do you know why? Ced and I would be abandoning everyone else, and I will _never_ abandon anyone who needs me. And let’s not forget the fact we’ll all be executed if our faces turn up in the Districts. You seem to be disregarding that very important detail, Cato.”

He shakes his head. “They won’t kill me.”

“How do you know?”

Cato stares coolly at me. “My father is a Victor.”

“Oh, yeah? So’s mine.”

“Mine isn’t embroiled in a rebellion,” he counters. “My father is the most respected Victor in District 2. He practically runs the Academy; he has just as much power as our mayor. Everyone in Two knows it. The Capitol knows it. If they want to keep Two tucked under their wing, then they’ll listen to my father when he tells them I have no part in this rebellion.”

“Clove seems convinced they’ll shoot you on sight.”

“Clove doesn’t think much of family ties. She believes my father’s loyalty to the Capitol will override his relationship to me.”

“Are you so sure it won’t?” I sneer.

“Very.”

I throw my hands in the air. “Fine. Whatever. It’s your funeral, literally. When you’re dead, I hope you’ll be comforted by the bullet in your brain.” I turn to go, determined to let him moronically tromp off to his death.

“Come with me.”

I must have something in my ears. “What did you say?”

Cato takes a step toward me. “Come with me. You and Cedric. I’ll make sure you’re both safe in Two, and we’ll find out how to get you to your parents some other way, without risking your necks in the wilderness.”

Some muttation must have killed Cato and taken on his appearance, because this doesn’t sound like the admittedly intelligent brute of a Career I know. “Have you eaten something that’s addled your brain? Did you not hear me when I said I won’t leave the others?”

“Then convince everyone else to come.”

“You’re insane. You are. You’ve gone insane,” I sputter. “The whole reason we’re in the wilderness right now is to avoid attention. Twenty-four escaped tributes clomping into Two are going to get a hell of a lot of attention. And I’m pretty sure Ced and I are two of the most wanted people in Panem right now. In no possible situation is any of us, least of all Ced and me, going to Two a good idea.” Addlepated. Yes, that sounds like a good word to describe Cato right now. That and fucking nuts. “Why would you even suggest as infeasible a plan as this?”

“ _Because I want to go home!_ ” Cato bellows. He lowers his voice, but he speaks no less intensely. “Because I want to go home, but I don’t want to leave you, and Cedric, and Marvel, and the others out here.”

“Then _stay!_ ” My voice breaks.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Are you so desperate for a shower and a bed and a cooked meal? I didn’t take you to be so _weak,_ ” I growl.

Cato grabs my wrists, but not tightly. “Do you think you’re the only one who misses their family?” he demands. “Do you?” I stare at him, unable to speak. “You say you love your family. You say you’d do anything for them, for Cedric. You want to see them again. Do you think I feel any less strongly about my family? Your parents are waiting for you in Thirteen; mine are waiting for me in Two. Tell me, Ember, if it were your parents who were under a day’s hike away, would you really pass up the opportunity to go back to them?”

I take a shuddering breath. “That still doesn’t explain why you got it in your crazy head to invite the rest of us along,” I say lowly, trying not to feel weighed down by the fact that he’s not wrong.

Cato exhales. “Fuck,” he mutters, and then he slams his mouth down on mine. His lips press hard, taking, demanding, greedy, _wanting._ I’m so shocked, so disoriented, so confused that I have no time to respond—if I even want to—before he pulls away as suddenly as he started. “Because you deserve better than to die in the woods,” he rasps. “Your name says it all, Girl on Fire. You should go down burning the world with you.”

I’m shaking. I can’t contain it. I wrench my wrists out of his grasp and stumble backward. He takes a step forward, but I hold up my hand. “No.” _Yes._ “Go.” _Stay._

“Ember?”

“Just go.” _Just stay._ “That’s what you want. Just leave us already, and don’t come back. We don’t need you. We’ll get along fine without you.”

“Ember—”

“ _GO!_ ” I point. “Just go already!” _Go. Stay. Help us. Leave us. I don’t care about you anymore. I’ll still worry._ I refuse to look at him again, listening for his departing footsteps. But after some time, I don’t hear them, so I turn back to yell at him again.

He’s gone. No trace of him, as if he were never here.

My eyes burn. No. Stop. I refuse to cry over Cato. My tears are reserved for people I care about.

“Em?”

As if on cue, Cedric shows up a few feet away, hesitant. My baby brother looks so solemn, so sympathetic, so _pitying._ I manage a watery smile. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Did he leave?” he asks quietly.

My throat sticks as I nod. “Yeah. He’s gone.” And I didn’t even get a last look. As angry as I am with Cato, I also understand why he’s leaving. And I honestly don’t know if I wouldn’t do the same in his place.

Still...it hurts.

And he just _had_ to fuck everything up even more by assaulting my mouth. (I don’t care what anyone says, that was _not_ a kiss.)

“Did he make you cry?” Ced sounds upset, as if he’ll go after Cato right now if I answer in the affirmative. Cedric versus Cato. The fight of the century.

I chuckle sadly and tousle his hair. “No boy has ever made me cry, and Cato isn’t going to be the first.”

“Well...good.” Cedric nods to himself. “I wanted to let you know that since Ardi and Una can fish again, you don’t need to hunt tonight.”

Fantastic. I’d probably miss everything I tried to shoot in my current state. “Sorry I’ve been gone so long. Is there anything I can help with?”

“We’ve already got everything taken care of. Just come back and get ready to eat.”

The others look at me strangely when I return. A few, namely Clove, Marvel, and Glimmer, look disappointed when they see I’m alone. “You couldn’t convince him to stay?” Marvel asks.

I shake my head. “If persuading him to stay was your intention, it shouldn’t have been me out there with him.”

Marvel sighs. “Believe it or not, out of everyone here, you had the best shot.”

Great. Refusing to look at anyone else, I nibble halfheartedly at some fish, not hungry but still determined to finish every bite. When I’m about done, Thresh sits beside me. “We need to set shifts.”

I blink at him. “That isn’t my forte.”

He shrugs. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

Oh. Right. Cato usually sets the watch. “Okay. Um. First shift, Bartel and Franzi?”

“I had a shift last night,” Bartel says.

I try not to bury my face in my hands. I guess we do need Cato, after all. But Thresh helps me figure out who can take a shift tonight, and somehow everything works out. It’s still an ordeal that takes way longer than it did when Cato was around. Night falls, and I make to crawl into my sleeping bag, but something resting on top of it stops me.

Cato’s sword. I pick it up—God, it’s heavy, how does he wear this like it’s weightless?—and turn it in my hands, wondering what he means by leaving it here. Just messing with my mind, I suppose. One last attempt at confusing the hell out of me. One last reminder of the boy who abandoned us.

The boy who abandoned me.

* * *

There are minimal supplies in his pack, but they’re plenty for the trek to Two. Cato spent the night alone, wishing he’d left in the morning instead. After he left, he didn’t get far at all before the darkness forced him to stop. He was still close enough to the others that he could have turned around and gone back to camp. Turned around and had to face everyone’s accusing glares. Face Ember Abernathy’s snide _I-told-you-so._

No, Cato tells himself. They would be grateful if he came back. Should be.

But the thought of Ember Abernathy’s blazing, furious, self-righteous eyes if he comes back with tail between his legs spurs him onward today.

He can still feel the touch of her lips on his, though “touch” makes their kiss sound a lot gentler than it actually was. He didn’t even allow her any time to respond, and he’s already craving more. But there won’t be more. It was impulse that led him to grab her, kiss her. Just once. He needed to know what it was like to taste fire, if only for a few fleeting seconds. And now it’s burning him inside-out. He wonders what it would be like to kiss her when she’s not steaming mad at him.

Well, it’s on her if she was so naive as to think he’d stay and die with the lot of them. Because Cato is convinced they won’t make it to Thirteen, and now that he’s gone, they’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell.

_But I have you, don’t I?_

Cato growls to himself. He should never have told her that. Never told her yes, she does have him. Now she’s gone and become disappointed in him. In the beginning, she certainly didn’t think highly of him at all—if only it had stayed that way.

(But...no, he doesn’t actually want Ember Abernathy to think so lowly of him, as if he’s barely human, like she did before she began to chip away at his walls.)

Too late. No turning back. Cato resolutely looks forward and thinks of his family. First to come to mind is little Laelia, his sister, whose last demand before he left for the Games was to buy her a pony with his Victor’s winnings. He promised her six and a carriage fit for a princess.

( _“She thinks she can get away with anything, if she flashes a pretty smile and looks cute.”_

_“But it doesn’t affect you at all, does it?”_ )

His other siblings he looks less forward to encountering. Vespasia has been unbearable ever since she became engaged to Sergius, the winner of the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games, and she persists in shoving the rock on her hand in everyone’s faces.

Tiberius will no doubt try to mock him for failing to even play the Games, as if not being selected to volunteer in the first place is any better. His older brother has always been bitter that their own father didn’t believe him good enough to win and passed him over as a volunteer.

Attilus Wolfwood has never been the warmest or kindest parent, but he drilled good principles into all his children: honor, loyalty, integrity. All of which Cato is betraying now by leaving the group. He grits his teeth and forges on. However cold and distant, he knows his father loves him, as a father does all his children, and Attilus will do all he can to protect Cato from wrongful punishment.

His mother—Cato can’t help smiling. Where Attilus was the disciplinarian, she has always been the nurturer, believing the best in her children, confident they can achieve whatever they put their minds to. When Cato was chosen to volunteer, she didn’t for a second think he would lose. That was out of the question. Of course he would win and come home. There was no other possible outcome.

Cato senses the other man at the same time he detects Cato. Cursing himself for not paying attention to his surroundings, he whips out his gun and points it square at the Peacekeeper’s masked face, just as the uniformed man aims at him.

To Cato’s immense surprise, the Peacekeeper lowers his gun. “Cato!”

Cato tenses. “Who are you?” Slowly, the man reaches for his mask and tugs it off. Cato blinks. “Tiberius?”

His older brother smiles wryly at him. “Fancy seeing you here, kitty-cat.”

Cato scowls at the hated childhood nickname and holsters his own weapon. “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Tiberius retorts. “Shouldn’t you be dead?”

“Should I be?” Cato parrots back at him.

“We were told not to expect you back. Ever.”

Cato crosses his arms. “And what exactly were you told?”

“The world heard that rogue Gamemaker telling the Abernathy girl to run. Immediately after that, every screen in Panem went dark. As far as the average citizen is concerned, you and the other tributes are safely ensconced in the Capitol, waiting for the Games to restart.”

“And the non-average citizen?” Cato presses.

Tiberius sneers. “I’m not authorized to disclose that information to you.”

Cato rolls his eyes. “Then I’ll ask Father.” He makes to go.

“Wha—wait, Cato! Don’t be stupid. I’ll tell you.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

“The Peacekeepers,” Tiberius begins, “have been told to keep an eye out for tributes who have escaped. We’re supposed to keep an especially close watch in the wilderness around Two, since it’s the District closest to the arena. If we see any of you, we are to turn you in immediately.” He pauses, then adds, “Lethal force is permitted if necessary.”

Cato keeps his posture casual, but in truth he is ready to retaliate at a moment’s notice. “Huh. So are you turning me in, then?”

“I should,” Tiberius gripes, though he makes no move for his gun or cuffs. “But Mother will never forgive me if I arrest you.”

“Then…” Cato jabs his thumb south, toward District 2 proper. “Are you going to turn around and pretend you didn’t see me? Because I’d much rather be at home than here talking to you.”

“No, Cato…” Tiberius sighs. “Look. For the last few days, I’ve been scouring these godforsaken woods for any sign of you. I used up my fucking vacation days for you.”

Cato raises his eyebrows. “I have never seen you be so altruistic.”

“Shut up, kitty-cat, I’m trying to tell you something. I’ve been out here because you’re one of the few names on the list of missing tributes whom Peacekeepers are only to incapacitate, not kill. I think—I _know,_ you’re on the short-list because the Capitol wants something from you. If they got their hands on you, they’d take you back to the Capitol as a hostage so they can force Father to do what they want.”

“And what do they want him to do that he isn’t already doing?” Cato demands.

“For starters, increase the number of Peacekeepers going into the other Districts,” Tiberius replies. “By at least double, if not triple.”

Double? Triple? “That’s not feasible. He would have to cut the duration of training at the Academy, and Father is very strict about the minimum age of graduation.”

“He would cut it for you.” His brother mutters, “You’ve always been his favorite.”

Cato sighs. “Okay, so why does the Capitol need so many more Peacekeepers?”

His brother looks around warily, as if somebody is eavesdropping on them in the middle of nowhere. “Uprisings,” he murmurs. “They’re sparking in some of the Districts. Unrest has been stirring for a time, and the tribute break-out just catalyzed the inevitable rebellion.”

Pieces fit into place. The recent revelation of the ongoing existence of District 13. The escape of the mentors from the Capitol. The fact that Rain Abernathy even _dared_ to so publicly betray the Capitol. Now the uprisings. Ember said that there was a rebellion, but given how little she herself knew about it, it never truly registered with Cato until now.

“Cato,” Tiberius continues, “I needed to be the first Peacekeeper to find you so that I can actually make sure you get home. And thank God that this is exactly what happened, and today of all days.”

“What’s so important about today?” Cato asks.

Tiberius’s gaze shifts. “Are you by yourself?”

“You’re asking that just now? Yes, I am.”

“Were you...always alone? Since you left the arena?”

Cato narrows his eyes. “What are you getting at, Tiberius?”

His brother chuckles humorlessly and shakes his head. “Congratulations, Cato. You might be the Victor of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, after all.”

“What are you talking about?”

Tiberius eyes him lazily. “Well, it would only be by default, and not because you earned it. Just as the last remaining tribute alive. You see, kitty-cat, the Capitol doesn’t care to expend any more of its resources searching for you lot, so they’re just going to burn the forest down with you all in it. Except you, of course. You escaped in the nick of time. But again, the Capitol wants to either curry Father’s favor or force him to their bidding, so they probably won’t try to exterminate you after the fact to make the kill count an even two dozen. Just lie low at home and you’ll be fine.”

Cato stuns his brother by grabbing a fistful of his shirt. “What do you mean, they’re going to burn the forest down?” he snarls.

“I mean they’ve estimated a huge chunk of the wilderness where they think you all might be now and they’re going to turn it into ashes. Get your hands off me.” Tiberius shoves him away.

“I thought they wanted the Abernathys alive as hostages.”

Tiberius looks at him curiously. “Where did you hear that?”

Cato shoves aside the image of the butchered Peacekeeper. “Never mind that. Answer my question.”

“I didn’t hear one,” Tiberius grumbles, but he complies. “Ember and Cedric Abernathy are also on the short-list of tributes to incapacitate rather than kill, but as with you, though preferable to have in their keeping, the Capitol doesn’t require they have them. I’ve heard that the rogue Gamemaker is their elder sister, and if so, then the Capitol probably has her under arrest and in their keeping. They’ve already got one hostage. Two more would simply be bonuses. Expendable, in other words.”

The horrifying scene plays in Cato’s mind. Capitol hovercrafts darken the sky above the group and drop fire bombs. The world explodes into an inescapable inferno. The tributes scream as they catch fire, and the stench of burning flesh clogs the air. They try to run, but the flames are insatiable, and they burn, every last one of them. Marvel and his spears can do nothing. Glimmer’s pretty face melts from the heat. Clove’s knives cannot cut fire.

Ember dies with her brother, trying to protect him from a fiery grave, only to be buried with him. Nameless, faceless, forgotten.

“Cato, where are you going?”

He’s already retracing his steps north. “Back to the others.”

“The...other tributes? Cato, you’ll die with them!”

Or he’ll save them.

He has to save them.

He has to save _her._

“Cato, just come with me, and come home! Am I supposed to tell Mother that I let you walk off to your death like a madman?”

“You can tell her I made you let me leave,” Cato calls over his shoulder, though the thought of his mother’s disappointment and fear for his safety causes a pang to cut through his chest. “She’ll believe you.”

“And what about Laelia?” Tiberius demands.

_Will you buy me a pony, Cay?_ Cato clenches his fist. He doesn’t respond, just keeps going.

“Cato, I can make you come with me.”

“No, you can’t.”

Tiberius growls in frustration. “Come on, Cato! What do you owe them? You barely even know the other tributes. You owe them nothing!”

Now Cato pauses and looks back. “Actually, I do owe h—them something. I owe them a fucking apology. And I owe it to them to try to save them. Don’t stop me, Tiberius. You’ll regret it.”

“You—I—ugh! What am I supposed to tell Father?”

Cato imagines his father’s stern face, so easily disappointed, and closes his eyes. “Honor. Loyalty. Integrity. You can tell him that.” He hears Tiberius starting to follow him, so without warning, Cato takes off at a run. He’s always been faster than his brother, and Tiberius has no hope of catching up with him. His brother’s yells of protests soon fade away.

The thought of Ember—everyone—burning alive spurs him even faster. _You should go down burning the world with you._ Fuck, he didn’t mean it so literally.

(But maybe it’s the very irony of such a death that encouraged the Capitol to choose this fate for the Girl on Fire.)

As he runs through the woods, determined to make much better time on the return than on his way here, Cato thinks about how a world without Ember Abernathy isn’t much of a world at all. Girl on Fire or not, he really doesn’t want her burning down anything if it means she’ll go down with it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t taken a look already, please check out the threeshot I’ve begun to post, “A Game Played Beautifully By Children.” It’s based on the prompt, What if Ember and Cato had played the 74th Hunger Games after all? 
> 
> I hope everyone had a nice holiday! If you enjoy this story at all, please leave a comment and let me know what you think of this chapter—Seneca and Snow, Cato and Ember, Cato and Tiberius, anything and everything you have thoughts about. As you’ve probably surmised, there’s quite an intense chapter coming up, soooooo the more you guys bug me about posting the next chapter, the faster I’ll put it up. :D 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in entering a oneshot contest (if the story hits a certain number of reviews by x time, one randomly selected reviewer will be able to give me a prompt about almost anything they want), I have details at the end of this chapter's Fanfiction.Net counterpart!

 

The dynamic in the group has changed drastically since Cato left last night, and everyone knows it. Thresh has been acting as a replacement, but I can already tell that he’s just not the same. He doesn’t act as swiftly, doesn’t as effortlessly anticipate my need for help, doesn’t know when I need him to take charge for a while, and instead waits for me to explicitly give him instructions or requests before acting. A disinclination to take over the group is by no means a bad trait, but it’s not what I need right now. I _need_ someone to help shoulder the responsibility, to be unafraid to have a heavy hand, to balance my shortcomings, to stand beside me in a united front.

(Whatever I told Cato about not needing him is utterly false. But I haven’t admitted it to myself yet.)

We’re less organized in the morning, and arranging the group’s traveling formation, along with the rotation of sled pushers and pullers, is a hassle, to say the least. But I do my best not to let my frustration and stress show. Morale is already battered enough from Cato’s departure.

Today’s trek through the wilderness seems longer and more tiring than usual. I can’t help but think about Cato’s comment about how we’re doomed to die before we reach District 13. How much truth was in that assertion? Was he right? What are our odds now that Cato is gone?

Cedric keeps looking at me askance, as if I’m going to have a meltdown at any moment. After the thirtieth side-eye, I can’t handle it anymore. “What is it, Cedric?”

“Nothing.” He stares down at his GPS.

“Spill, twerp.”

Cedric chews on his lip. “I just...was wondering if you were okay.”

“Okay? Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He frowns. “You’ve been upset ever since Cato left.”

I can’t deny that. “Yeah, I guess. But on the bright side, now that he’s gone, I don’t have to deal with his temper anymore.” I force a smile.

“Uh-huh. Right. Why are you carrying his sword?”

The giant sword that Cato chose as his signature weapon is strapped to my back. It’s heavy. He made carrying it look so easy. I’m going to need a chiropractor when this is all over. “It’s a good weapon. I don’t see the point in letting it go unused.”

“Em, you know you’re not strong enough for a sword that big,” my little brother chastises, sounding unnervingly like Dad. “You’re likelier to hurt yourself than someone else.”

As I start to refute Cedric’s lack of confidence in me, I hear gasps and murmurs of shock rising behind us. I’m convinced I’m hallucinating when Cato rushes to my side. Without ado, he starts speaking. “Ember, we need to get out of here, all of us. The Capitol is coming and—”

I cut him off, heart pounding. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I came back.”

“Why? You made it pretty clear you think our quest is going to fail.”

He growls impatiently. “The Capitol is going to bomb these woods, and we’re all going to die if we don’t go now!”

I stare at him. “How do you know this?”

“Long story short, I ran into my brother Tiberius and he told me. We need to get moving, _now._ ”

“We” again. As if he never left. “So you just randomly ran into your brother in the woods and he told you all about the Capitol’s evil plans, and then, after you told us how we’re all going to die and you left us, you ran back here to die with us anyway? How am I supposed to believe that?”

Cato groans. “Ember, twenty-four hours ago you would’ve trusted me on this.”

“Twenty-four hours ago, you hadn’t abandoned us yet.”

He grabs my shoulders and turns me around so I’m looking at Cedric. “Look at your brother, Ember. If you don’t listen to me right fucking now, he and all the others are going to burn to death. For just a moment, can you please put everything between us aside and _listen to me_ and give us the chance to get to safety?”

“I think he’s lying. I think it’s a trap.” I blink in surprise at Cedric, who’s scowling deeply at Cato. “We’re close enough to the nearest settlement in Two that he could’ve gotten there last night and met up with people. His father is allies with the Capitol, isn’t he? And the Capitol wants us all dead or captured, don’t they? It’s probably a trick to round us up. And Cato made it pretty clear before he left that he’s not on our side anymore.”

Cato looks ready to punch something. Possibly my brother. It’d better not be my brother. “Ember, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left. It was a huge mistake. You deserved better than to just have me split on you. Now I’m trying to rectify that. Will you let me?” When I say nothing, his voice rises. “I swear to God, Ember, I’m telling the truth. I know it sounds ridiculous, just happening to run into my Peacekeeper brother who knew about the fire-bombs, but that’s what happened. And Cedric’s mistaken: I _am_ on your side. Yours, Ember, if no one else’s.”

I hesitate and look between the two. Cedric is still glaring with all the abhorrence he can muster in his little body; my brother’s vehemence against Cato is unexpected, but not something I can devote the time to thinking about right now. Under almost all circumstances, I would trust Cedric’s feelings and opinions. I should listen to him and push Cato away, Cato who left us, Cato who turned his back on us without looking back.

But Cato… He’s right. Before he left, I would have believed him. Before he left, he’d earned my trust, by taking care of the Peacekeepers and helping defend the group against the mutts. Up until very recently, I trusted this boy, and that sense of trust in him still lingers.

And I can’t help thinking about Cedric burning. Which is the greater danger, all of us being burnt to a crisp or being arrested by Peacekeepers? I do know that the former possibility is not something we’d be able to come back from, while the latter, although undeniably a terrible situation, wouldn’t be entirely hopeless like the first.

“If you are telling the truth,” I start, “what would we do? Where would we run to? It’s either more wilderness or District 2 for miles around. Do we even have time to run? When are they coming?”

“I don’t know when they’re sending the bombers,” Cato admits. “I ran before I could ask Tiberius, to make sure I got here in time. But we’ll be able to hear the hovercrafts coming, and I don’t hear them now, so there’s still a chance. Not to outrun the Capitol—the blast radius is supposed to be huge—but to hide, to wait it out, to survive. Fire-bombs are designed more to burn than to explode, so if we get to the river, the water should help us, if the bombs don’t get dropped too close.”

“I’m telling you, Em, it’s a trap!” Ced cries. “There are probably Peacekeepers or something waiting for us at the river.”

Cato’s jaw twitches as he glares at my brother.

I prevaricate between them, knowing that time is rapidly running out if Cato is telling the truth. _Mom, Dad, what would you do?_

Dad would get all aggro like Cedric is now and bully Cato about being a turncoat.

Mom would eye him with deep suspicion and feel uncomfortable ever turning her back on him.

They would both listen to their gut.

My gut tells me Cato is in earnest. It’s telling me that Cato wouldn’t work with Peacekeepers to capture or kill us. It’s telling me that Cato is desperately trying to save our lives.

I raise my voice. “Everyone get to the river, ASAP!”

The pack just stares at me.

“If you don’t want to die, _move,_ ” Cato bellows.

Now they move their asses. Why can’t I have that ability?

Cedric tugs on my arm. “Em, what are you doing?” he hisses. “How can you trust him?”

“Cedric, we’re going to have a nice conversation about all this later, but right now, we need to not die. You stick with the other kids and run for the river. I need to help with the sled.” We’re going to need every able body we can to push and pull our supplies if we want to hustle. Time may be of the essence, but we’ve already half-killed ourselves getting the supply sled this far, so I’ll be damned if we abandon it now. Ced’s still-boiling fury surprises me—he’s usually the cool-headed one—but I’ll have to talk with him later, when we’re not running for our lives.

Cato sticks beside me as we run toward the sled. Lothar and Franzi are trying and failing to get an organized, efficient formation around it. Although they look wary at Cato’s approach, they’re also visibly relieved when he takes over, barking orders. It’s as if he never left.

“Wanna explain what the fuck’s going on?” Marvel grunts, positioned next to me as we and several others push.

“Capitol’s going to fire-bomb the woods,” Cato replies tersely. “We can’t outrun them, so we’re taking shelter.”

“River isn’t going to do much against fire-bombs,” Thresh points out.

“It’s that or blindly running among the extremely flammable trees. Got any better ideas?” Cato barks back.

No one does.

Motivated by Cato’s _gentle_ encouragement, we reach the river in record time, just as we hear the distant hum of approaching hovercrafts. Undeniable proof that Cato is telling the truth, and undeniable proof that we’re about to entrust our lives to hope and sheer luck. The other kids who weren’t on sled-duty are already waiting by the river, huddling together on the banks. “We’ll leave the sled on the shore,” Cato says once we stop. “It’ll take too long to maneuver into the river. But _we’ll_ all want to actually be in the water.”

As everyone splashes in, I count heads and come up one short. I immediately realize who’s missing. “Where’s Cedric?” I turn to the closest of the younger kids. “Rue, where is he?”

“I don’t know, I never saw him come with us,” she frets.

Panic swells. I whirl around to face the trees. “CEDRIC!” I scream, just as the first bomb explodes in the distance.

“ _Ember!_ ” I hear him wail from far away. Too far away.

I scramble for the woods, but someone grabs me around the waist. “Don’t!” Cato orders.

“Let me go, I have to get him—”

“You stay here. I’ll go.” Before I can even blink, he’s gone. Moments later, another bomb hits, this one much closer than the last.

“Ember, get in the water,” Finch calls. I’m the only one still on dry ground. I shake my head, never looking away from the spot where I saw Cato disappearing into the forest, my ears pricked for another one of Cedric’s cries. So I don’t notice Thresh stomping out of the river until it’s too late, and he’s bodily picked me up and deposited me into the shallows. I glare at him, but he’s unrepentant. No point continuing to glower at him. I return my attention to the trees.

_Please, please, please don’t let them die._ My hand drifts up to the mockingjay pin on my shirt.

The long, painful seconds tick by with the pounding of my heart. Smoke billows above the woods, not close enough to affect our breathing yet, but close enough that I can hear Marvel somewhere behind me, murmuring about preparing wet cloths to cover our mouths and noses with. Every so often, a bomb drops like a stone from a hovercraft obscured by the clouds of smoke, and yet another part of the forest goes up in flames. Soon I can see flames crackling high above the trees everywhere I look, and dread builds and builds in my breast with every moment that Cato and Cedric are still gone.

Then there’s movement. Human movement. Cato is sprinting back, and my heart soars when I see he’s carrying Cedric. And at that moment, as I get my hopes up, a bomb drops, whistling, closer to us than any other has been this evening. Cato realizes at the same time I do that they’re not going to make it.

“THRESH!” he shouts, and with all the adrenaline-fueled strength in his body, he throws my little brother. Cedric hurtles into Thresh’s arms just as the world explodes.

In hindsight, I will come to realize that we were all extremely lucky, that we were at the very edge of the blast radius and that we would all be dead if that last bomb were any closer. Lucky that the Capitol chose bombs more for their ability to burn than to explode, because we would all be dead, dead, dead otherwise.

Right now, though, I’m feeling anything but lucky.

With surprising strength for her slight frame, Finch grabs me bodily and forces me down into the water as trees blow up in a fiery explosion and cast burning branches and splinters and other shrapnel in all directions. Some of the other kids are screaming, and at least one person is crying. It’s too chaotic for me to identify who it is, to figure out if they got injured or if they’re just terrified out of their minds. Like me.

I twist around until I can see Thresh, and more importantly Ced. My ashen-faced brother is curled up, trembling, in the bigger boy’s arms. “Ced,” I croak. “Are you okay?”

He nods. When he speaks, it’s only one whispered word: “Cato.”

_Cato._ I scramble to my feet. Massive flames lick the sky in the distance. In our immediate vicinity, some of the trees are on fire, but it doesn’t look like we’re in imminent danger of going up in smoke, as long as the Capitol doesn’t drop any more bombs this close. I turn my attention to where I last saw Cato, and there he lies, face-down, unmoving on the ground. “ _Cato!_ ” I run to him and crouch beside him. I check for a pulse, and relief washes over me when I find one. Alive. He’s burned and bleeding, but alive.

Marvel and Thresh catch up, and they lift Cato. He begins to stir at the motion and hisses as they inadvertently jostle some injury or another. “Don’t be a crybaby, suck it up,” Marvel mutters, and Cato mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “Fuck you, Marvel.”

I walk alongside them as they carry Cato to the river. Finch quickly takes in his condition. “Put him in the water, but don’t let anything else touch his burns. I’ll see what medical supplies we have. Someone hold up his head while he’s in the water.”

“I’ll do it,” I volunteer. I sit in the shallows, and the boys carefully lower Cato so that his head is on my lap and in the open air, while his back, which sustained the most injury, is submerged, angled so that none of his burned skin touches the floor of the river.

Cato is teetering between wakefulness and unconsciousness, barely cognizant enough to recognize me. “Hey, Twelve,” he slurs.

“Hey, Two. You just had to be a big damn hero, huh?” I jibe, throwing his words, from the night after the mutts attacked, back at him. And yet, despite my teasing, I’m fully aware that were it not for Cato’s big damn heroism, Cedric would be a charred corpse.

Even in as much pain as he must be in, he manages a smirk. “Kiss it better?”

I manage to turn my stunned reaction—I can _almost_ admire his persistence, even in this state—into what could pass for a snort of contempt. “I don’t kiss invalids.”

“I’ll prove that I’m not an invalid,” he mutters, then quiets when Finch returns. I concentrate on obeying her commands—“Lift his head” “Roll him over” “Hold his mouth open so he can take this painkiller”—and making sure Cato doesn’t drown. That would be a horrible way to go after surviving fire-bombs.

Finch finishes treating him. “I can’t put on his bandages until he’s out of the water, and, well…” She nods toward the still-ravenously burning flames around us. “I don’t think any of us should leave this river just yet.”

“We’re going to have to wait it out,” I agree. “How does he look to you?”

“Stable, for now. But we’ll have to hope he doesn’t get an infection before we get him out of the water and cover his burns. No idea what’s in this river. We could move him onto the riverbank…” As if on cue, several burning branches fall onto the shore. “But then we’d have to hope he doesn’t get hurt again by debris. And there would still be a risk of infection, from the ashes flying all over the place. The river is the lesser of two evils.”

I don’t argue with Finch. “Do you know if anyone else was hurt?”

“A few minor burns and scrapes. Nothing nearly as bad as Cato. I’ll see to them.” Finch looks down at the unconscious boy whose head is in my lap; Cato passed out sometime during her ministrations. “Do you want someone else to take your spot so you can do other things?”

I hesitate, gazing at Cato’s face, free for now from the pain he would certainly be feeling if he were awake. “I’d hate to jostle him and wake him up.”

“True,” Finch concedes. “He’s best off sleeping.”

“Can you let Thresh and Marvel know they’re in charge for now?”

She nods and flits off.

I look at Cato’s face again. It’s covered in soot, as is his normally golden hair. For lack of anything else I’m able to do at the moment, I begin to gently wash the ash and dust off. As I finish, I feel someone watching me. “Come here, Cedric,” I call out without looking up.

My brother shuffles to my side and squats in the water.

“You okay, Ced?”

He nods miserably.

My voice is soft as I ask, “What happened, Cedric? Why did you get left behind?”

His face scrunches up. “I’m stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I stayed behind on purpose,” he mumbles. “I didn’t want to listen to Cato. I thought he was lying and I wanted to… I wanted to prove…” He sniffs. “I didn’t believe him until the first bomb, and by then it was too late to catch up. It was so, so stupid. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Oh, Cedric.” What do I say to that? There’s no need to yell at him or scold him or call him an idiot. I’m sure he’s already kicked himself enough.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “But when he left us, he hurt you, a lot, and Dad says you don’t trust anyone who hurts your sisters, ever. I wanted to protect you too, Em, and now—now—”

I lean over as best as I can with Cato’s head on my lap and pull my brother in for a hug. I can sense his snot smearing on my jacket, but I don’t care. “Cedric, I love you. But I never, ever want you to try to help me at the risk of your own life.”

“I thought it was _you_ who was putting yourself in danger by listening to Cato,” he laments. “I thought I was the only one seeing through him.”

My little twelve-year-old brother, already such a cynic. “Didn’t you used to like Cato?”

“That was before he made you cry.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“I’m your brother. I could tell you wanted to cry, and that’s practically the same thing.”

I run my fingers through his dark, dirty curls. “My little hero,” I tease. “Ced, will it make you feel better if you talk to Cato when he wakes up?” He nods. “We’ll see how he feels when he comes to, okay?” Another nod. “Now, wash your face and join your friends. I think Rue and the others are waiting for you.”

I make sure Ced does a thorough job scrubbing his face, washing away not only his tears but also the soot on his cheeks. My sharp eyes scan his skin for injuries, but he’s unmarred as far as I can tell.

All thanks to Cato.

He sleeps like the dead, and my fingers instinctively move to brush his hair, which is surprisingly soft. This close to him, without him distracting me with his smirks and his innuendo-laden comments, I can study his features unabashedly for once. His golden lashes flutter ever so slightly, as his eyes move beneath his eyelids, in response to whatever dreams are running through his head. My gaze travels downward, past his aquiline nose to his slightly open mouth. I gently tilt his chin so that his lips close. Don’t want him getting a mouthful of the ashes flying around, after all. Even though I know he can’t hear me, I whisper, “Thank you,” and bend down to kiss his forehead.

Then, I get back to business and take a look around the river, trying to count heads but giving up when it proves too difficult because everyone is moving around. Since no one has yet to run up to me in a panic about another missing kid, I assume everyone is accounted for. Finch is finishing up her medical rounds. Lothar and Franzi are checking the sled on the shore, which seems to have survived our frenzied run in mostly one piece. Thresh, Marvel, and some of the older tributes are in deep discussion; I wish I could join them, but that’s out of the question with a certain weight in my lap.

My ears pick up on quiet sniffling. I quickly identify the source as somewhere within the cluster of the youngest kids. It doesn’t sound like Ced, but I can’t pinpoint who exactly it is. But in the end, it doesn’t matter. The other kids are all patting and murmuring comfortingly to the crier, and the whimpers soon fade away.

For some reason, I feel very proud.

Jaxon circles around offering water to everyone. I gladly take his proffered bottle but pause as he cautions me not to drink too much. “What’s the problem?”

He gestures at the river around us. “Even with iodine and boiling, I’m not sure if this water will be potable again for a while. There’s going to be ash and all sorts of contaminants falling in here soon enough, if not already. I know Cato is in charge of rations, but I thought…”

I nod. “You thought right. Thanks, Jaxon.” My brow creases as he departs. We’re back to a water shortage, and this time we don’t have a backup river we can retreat to. Also, I observe with rising dread, with the forest charred as it is, there will be no more hunting or foraging until we’re out of the Capitol’s burn zone—which, as Cato said, is probably quite large. We’ll have to dig into our supplies, which we were hoping not to have to use until much later in our two month journey.

I close my eyes and take a deep, calming breath. I think back to my nightly pre-bedtime ritual at home: I air out all my grievances of the day in my journal, but when I finish that, I then list everything that I’m grateful for. I had a really whiny, bratty stage several years ago, and Mom made me do this every day until I changed my attitude. But even after she stopped looking over my shoulder, I continued to do it. It’s cathartic. I obviously haven’t been doing it since I arrived at the Capitol, but right now, I could do with a bit of catharsis.

Grievances: oh, where do I even begin. On the run in the wilderness. The Capitol just fire-bombed us. Cato’s been burned and the prospect of infection is nightmarish. Food and water will be a problem very soon. That’s not even including my worries about my parents and Summer, about Rain, about Ashton and my friends back home.

So...blessings: Everyone is alive. My brother was not burned to a crisp. No one is going to be permanently maimed. At least we have supplies. And maybe now the Capitol thinks we’re dead and they’ll stop hounding us.

(And Cato came back.) 

* * *

Sterile. That’s the first word that comes to mind as Seneca makes his way down the hallway leading to his erstwhile fiancee. It’s a steel-lined, windowless tunnel with fluorescent lights, seemingly bare of anything else, but his Gamemaker-trained eyes quickly spot all the hidden cameras.

Two Peacekeepers stand guard at the end of the tunnel. One turns around to unlock the door and allow him in. Seneca has to take a deep breath and square his shoulders before he sets foot within, though; he has no idea what he’s going to find inside.

_Enjoy Miss Abernathy’s pretty smiles and eyes while you still can,_ the president told him before sending him here. There are a thousand possible underlying meanings to that comment, and Seneca fears nine hundred ninety-nine of them.

Relief washes over him when he spots Rain looking none the worse for wear. She’s wearing a nondescript white uniform—prisoner garb, he thinks.

(Or, even more disturbingly, test subject garb.)

He recalls Snow’s comment about her “pretty eyes” again as she turns them toward him, the cloudy gray of summer storms. Not long ago, some tawdry stylist had been irritatingly insistent about doing enhancements on Rain’s eyes, and Seneca came very close to exploding in public, something he never does, very rarely even in private. Those eyes have inspired many a misty, haunting, tempestuous painting by his hand, and he’ll be damned before some has-been stylist tries to alter them.

(Of course, it helps that Rain herself has no interest in artificial enhancements.)

“Seneca!” she cries out, and she stands up rapidly. Too rapidly, it seems, because she then sways unsteadily on her feet.

Years of easing her worries and seeing to her comfort propel him forward until he is by her side. “What’s wrong?” Rain is a robust woman. It takes a lot to knock her off her feet.

“A little dizzy. The baby hasn’t been treating me very well.”

A glance at the still-present bulge, although not yet prominent, reassures Seneca more than the president’s claims that he has no need to harm his and Rain’s child. “Has anyone done or said anything to you so far?”

She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen anyone since I was put in here after my interrogation, except the Peacekeepers who bring me food.” On the table in the sparsely furnished cell is a tray of simple fare, which has been half-heartedly picked at by someone who knows she should eat but hasn’t the appetite for it. The bed also looks like it’s barely been slept in. Under normal circumstances, Seneca would be gently scolding her for not taking better care of herself, especially now that there’s a baby to think of.

These are not normal circumstances, and he would do well to remember that.

“So you know nothing that has happened since you were escorted out of Gamemaker Headquarters.” His voice is distant, different. Almost alien.

Rain can tell as well.

Her haunting gaze meets his unwaveringly. “You’re angry at me,” she says calmly.

“Furious,” he corrects in just as even a tone. They both know that they are being watched and eavesdropped on. The more they can keep their true emotions at bay, the better. They’re Gamemakers: they prefer to control the show, not be in it. “You lied to me. For years, I’m sure.”

Rain purses her lips, and Seneca futilely wishes that the cameras would short out. He knows she would tell him more if others weren’t watching.

(Or would she really? He doesn’t know anything about her anymore.)

Finally, she speaks. “You’re an only child, Seneca, and your parents are dead. You have a different understanding of the world than mine. Family means everything to me.”

Rain is one of the most intelligent people he knows, and they have spent many an occasion secretly mocking and chortling over the stupidity of others. That condescension, now that it’s directed at him, cuts him. “So what, just because I have no siblings and no living parents, I can’t understand the importance of family? Do you really think so little of me?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Rain responds, frustration seeping into her tone. “I have so many loved ones, Seneca. So many people I could lose. So many people I’m constantly in fear for, I was doing my best to protect everybody. You’ve said so yourself in the past, Seneca, that you’ve only ever deeply cared for a few people in your life. You don’t know what it’s like for your love to be torn in so many different directions and stretched so thin that you have to make decisions that could hurt those who matter most, because it’s impossible to hurt no one.”

“And I’m the one you chose to hurt,” he says quietly. “Because you didn’t trust me? Because after expending all your affection and care on your parents and brothers and sisters, what was left for your fool of a fiance?”

“It wasn’t a matter of trust! And if you think it was a matter of deciding whom I loved more, then you are a fool. It was a matter of protecting you, Seneca. Don’t you see that it’s because I told you nothing that you’re still a free man? If you knew nothing, then you were guiltless, and no one could blame you for anything.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure the interrogation that _I_ endured a few days ago meant that no one suspected anything of me at all,” Seneca says sarcastically. “Honestly, I’m shocked I haven’t even been fired, considering all the unauthorized access I gave you via my ID and passwords to the arena and to the Gamemaker interface. You left my digital fingerprints everywhere you went in your quest to break out your siblings, you do realize that? It’s only because you so successfully made me into a gullible ignoramus that I’m not occupying the cell adjacent to yours.”

“Seneca, I—”

He doesn’t let her get a word in edgewise, though. His normally close to nonexistent temper is demanding to be heard, and all the stress and worry that’s built up because of recent events has reached its boiling point. “I’ve always known you were a great actress, Rain. I suppose I should’ve realized that meant you were a talented liar as well. Congratulations, you’re one of the few people who have ever successfully conned me, and it’s all the more impressive considering how long you must have been planning this with your family and fellow rebels. It makes me wonder how long this all has been going on, and to what extent. What else have you lied to me about?” A question that has been haunting him the last few days comes to the forefront. “Do you even really love me?”

“Oh, Seneca.” Rain takes his hands, and it takes all his willpower to force them to remain stiff in her grasp, to not cling to hers in turn. “You can doubt anything else I’ve said, anything else I’ve ever told you, but I have _never_ lied about loving you.”

He hears the earnestness in her voice, and he so desperately wants to believe her, because despite everything, he is still madly, head-over-heels in love with her, and the thought of her affection for him, of the last few years they’ve spent together, not being real rips him to the core. But how can he just take her word for it? How can he believe her on this one point, when so many other things she has proclaimed have been falsehoods? How does he know that she isn’t going to make a fool of him again?

Instinct to emotionally protect himself compels him to withdraw his hands from hers and step away. He needs distance. He needs time. He needs to think.

“Seneca?”

And he needs to do what the president sent him here to do. Seneca has already wasted enough time. The last thing he wants is for Snow to grow impatient and interfere, to potentially come here himself and fulfill the assigned task with more cruelty than Seneca would. “Before I forget,” he says hollowly, “I must offer you my condolences.”

Rain stares at him. “What do you mean? Condolences for what?”

Seneca can’t look at her. “The Capitol fire-bombed the wilderness that your siblings, Ember and Cedric, and the other tributes were hiding in. There were no survivors.”

Her already pale face is further drained of color. “No. No, that can’t be. They were supposed to… They’re supposed to be safe. Please, please tell me this is some cruel joke, Seneca.”

Judging by Snow’s pleased expression when he told Seneca to pass on the information, it isn’t a joke. “I’m sorry, Rain.”

She turns away from him, shoulders shaking. Rain almost never cries, but he’s seen her the rare few times she does, and he knows how it works: she does her best to hide away from the world, and then she silently weeps, until she can compose herself and put back on her unaffected, uncaring mask. She isn’t a pretty crier, but it’s when she cries that he feels most compelled to pull her close and hug her until her sobs subside.

Now is no exception. But the president is waiting—and watching. So Seneca forces himself away and exits the room without another look. When he returns to where Snow sits, the president’s congratulatory “Well done, Seneca” makes him sick to his stomach. 

* * *

His mother is crying. “Why didn’t you come back, my love? You could have come home to me. Do I matter so little to you?”

He tries to answer. He tries to refute her. _No, Mother, you mean the world to me. I wanted to come home. I did. I tried._ But his lips feel like they’ve been sewn shut.

“I gave birth to you. I nursed you. I raised you. I soothed your nightmares and sang you to sleep. Yet you turned your back on me, for what? For children you would have gladly killed in the Games? For a girl you’ve only known for several days, a week? I mean nothing to you anymore, don’t I?”

_No, Mother, you know that’s not true. Please, let me explain…_ But his mother and her tears vanish.

“Oh, my silly little brother.” Vespasia smirks at him, her obscenely large diamond ring sparkling on her finger. “And I thought _I_ was the romantic in this family. Did you really think she’d have you, after the way you betrayed her? Did you really think going back to her like a lost little puppy would win her over? Did you really think she could ever forget that deep down, you’re truly a monster who thinks nothing of murdering children? You know monsters never get the girl in the end.”

_Shut up. You don’t know anything. Shut up._ His sister laughs and twirls away.

Tiberius appears in a blood-spattered Peacekeeper uniform. “And to think, Father chose _you_ for the Games, but not me. Bring pride to our district, _psh._ You’ve brought nothing, done nothing, accomplished nothing. What, you wanted to save them, kitty-cat? You wanted to save _her?_ How did that work out for you? I mean, look at what you made me do. All that screaming is still echoing in my ears. And I’ll have to get this uniform cleaned.”

_No. Stop lying. I saved them. I saved her. You’re a liar, Ty._

“You keep telling yourself that, kitty-cat.”

_Liar._

“Cay?” Laelia stands there, chin wobbling. “Cay, did you buy my pony? Are you coming home yet? I miss you. When are you coming back? You’re coming back, right? Do you not love me anymore?”

_Of course I still love you, Lae. I’ll come home. I’ll come home one day._

“Where are you, Cay? Why can’t you come back now?”

_I’m sorry, Lae, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…_

His baby sister disappears, and he feels the foreboding presence of his father. “I am disappointed in you.”

He is frozen. Speechless.

“I thought you would bring pride to our district, to our family. But my faith was misplaced. You’re _weak._ ”

_I’m not. I’m not weak. I’ll prove it—_

“No son of mine would throw everything away and betray everything he knows for the sake of a useless girl from a family of traitors. What can she give you? Love? Love is for children. Did I not purge those naive sentiments out of you years ago? Have you learned nothing?” His father shakes his head. “I am ashamed of you.” He turns and walks away.

_Father. Please._

Then everything is burning. The world is on fire, flames everywhere he looks. Pain blisters across his body, as smoke fills his lungs and screams his ears. Horrible screams, teeming with agony and fear.

_But I thought I saved them. I saved them. I saved her._

“Cato.”

He knows that voice. He feels a gentle touch, and he savors the sensation, allowing everything else to fall away as he focuses on just that touch.

“Cato, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

Where is she? He can’t find her. _Ember, where are you?_

“Cato, wake up. It’s time to wake up now.”

He wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So does everyone like Cato again?
> 
> Disclaimer: I know things. How bombs work is not one of those things. Neither is burn treatment. You know what, from this point on, y’all should really just suspend your disbelief in anything concerning science/medicine in this story.
> 
> In case you haven’t been keeping up, I finally uploaded Part Two of the threeshot I wrote for the first oneshot contest last week. If you’re interested in reading about what if Ember and Cato had played out the 74th Hunger Games after all, check out “A Game Played Beautifully By Children.”
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please comment!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're a "A Game Played Beautifully By Children" reader: I hope this chapter makes up for crushing your souls with that ending.

Cato wakes up to the sight of Ember Abernathy by his side, concern evident in her expression. Her hand is on his shoulder, as if she’s been trying to shake him awake. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “We wanted to let you wake naturally, but it looked like you were having nightmares, and I was worried you might hurt yourself in your sleep.”

Whatever demons were haunting his dreams are rapidly fading. All that lingers is a vague sensation of shame.

Ember offers him a small smile, and just like that, even that shadow of shame is wiped away. “How are you feeling?”

As if on cue, the pain in his back—he’s lying on his stomach, he belatedly realizes—sears into existence. He’s endured worse at the Academy—maybe not burns, but bruises and cuts, for sure—but he is by no means in peak condition. “I’ll live.”

“Do you need Finch to look at you? She just checked your bandages, while you were still out, but she won’t mind coming back.”

Cato shakes his head and tries pushing himself up so he supports himself with his elbows. So far, so good. He maneuvers himself so he’s leaning against a stack of rolled-up sleeping bags, and his back only mildly complains. The two of them are in a rather secluded part of the camp, within sight but out of earshot of the others, who are having a meal. Judging by the sun’s position, it’s breakfast. “How long was I out?” he asks, before allowing her to tip some water down his throat.

“The Capitol dropped the bombs yesterday. Except for a few moments of semi-wakefulness, you were unconscious the entirety of yesterday afternoon, evening, and night, and most of this morning.”

Longer than he would’ve liked, but not too bad. “So what’s my diagnosis?”

“Your back will be scarred for sure, but Finch says if you’re careful these next few days, you’ll make a full recovery. You didn’t get anything beyond a second-degree burn—Finch wouldn’t have been able to do much for something worse than that—so expect to fully recover in two to three weeks. Knowing how bull-headed you are, though, you’ll probably be healed in one week due to sheer determination.” She cracks a grin.

Cato returns it. “Your brother?”

“Completely okay, thanks to you. He would like to talk to you once you’re feeling up for it. He’s sorry for how he treated you when you came back. And yesterday afternoon, the way he stayed behind, not his most glorious moment.”

Yeah, Cedric Abernathy isn’t Cato’s favorite person right now. Cato thought that Ember was easily the more bull-headed and temperamental of the two siblings, but it looks like Cedric could give his sister a run for her money. Ember at least was rational enough yesterday to trust him rather than brave fire-bombs. Not Cedric. And now here Cato sits on the ground, invalid for the time being, because he had to save Cedric’s stubborn butt from burning.

But if he had to, Cato would do it all over again. Not just because he can’t in good conscience let an oxymoronically smart yet dumb little twelve-year-old die like that, but mainly because of Ember. He’d seen the desperate determination in her face yesterday, when she realized Cedric was still in the woods, to save her brother. But there was no way she would have been able to find him in time, and there was no way Cato was going to let her run off to her own death. So he’d gone instead.

All things considered, that was a pretty damn big risk and near-sacrifice he made yesterday, for the sake of a girl he’d turned his back on just the day before.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Her blue eyes search his. “For what? Aren’t you supposed to be the big damn hero right now?”

“You know what for,” he says quietly. “When I left you, I said some things that I really shouldn’t have said. I broke my promise about being there for you, with you. I gave you no warning, no chance to talk to me about it.”

“We did talk about it. A little.”

“Doesn’t count. We were both too mad at each other, and I’d already made up my mind by then.”

She lowers her gaze. “The thing is,” she says slowly, “while I was angry about those things you just said, I don’t know how angry I could really be about the actual act of you leaving. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what you said about your family, how you asked me what I would do in your shoes. And I can’t honestly say that I would have done much differently. If Twelve were a hop, skip, and jump away, and my parents were at home there, I would probably take Ced and go. So I can’t blame you for leaving so you could see your family again.” Ember nibbles on her lip and meets his gaze again. She adds, more tartly, “But yes, you were kind of an asshole shortly before you left.”

Cato chuckles. When you see that fiery gleam in Ember Abernathy’s eyes, you know that despite her words, all is well again. “Sorry. I’m really bad at saying goodbyes.”

She reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Thank you,” she says softly. “For saving Ced. For saving all of us. For coming back when you had every reason not to.”

He isn’t sure what to say in response. _You’re welcome_ seems woefully lacking.

But it seems Ember isn’t expecting an answer because she has a few more questions for him. “So what _did_ make you come back? And how did you know about the bombs in the first place? You said something about your brother?”

The first question makes his brain freeze. His mouth refuses to open and answer. He blames his training at the Academy— _show no weakness_ —but he knows better.

He likes Ember Abernathy.

_Likes_ her.

A lot.

Enough to throw away his home, his family, and potentially his life, in order to save her. The depth of his feelings is astounding, considering how they really haven’t known each other that long. But Cato feels as if they have. He’s opened up more to Ember in the last few days than he ever has to anyone in Two, with the possible exception of select members of his family, and perhaps that one time with Marvel in a moment of extremely poor judgment. And Ember in turn spoke to him about her life, her family, her home, revealing more about her than he could ever have learned over years of watching cheesy specials about the Abernathy Family on TV.

What would happen if he told her? _I came back because I have a crush on you and it would really suck if you died._ But perhaps in less uncouth terms.

Possibility One: she tells him that the feeling isn’t mutual, and they’re in for an extremely awkward next two months as they continue trekking to District 13. A highly undesirable outcome.

Possibility Two: she tells him that the feeling is mutual. A very optimal outcome—until Cato considers the fact that he’s just saved the entire pack, including herself, especially her little brother, and her gratitude over that might be swaying her, or even guilting her, toward accepting his overtures.

As silly as it might sound, Cato really, really wants Ember Abernathy to like him because of _him,_ not because he saved their lives. For all he knows, maybe she does like him back that way, for _him._ But it’s so recent to the bombing that he can’t be certain of that, and he’s been too well-trained in strategy to just blindly enter this new situation without more information. He won’t deny that she knows by now, without a doubt, that he at least likes her on a physical level, and that he’s fond of her on a personal level. But the deeper levels of affection, he’s going to keep to himself for now.

He thinks back to all of his and Ember’s recent interactions, from before the bombs, and tries to discern anything that could give away whether the feeling is reciprocated. Some facial expressions, some bits of dialogue, therein lies possibility, but he isn’t sure how much of it is just his wishful thinking. To be honest, Cato is usually pretty good at reading girls. But apparently, it’s different—it’s harder—when it comes to Ember Abernathy, because unlike the hook-ups he’s had in the past, she actually matters.

So. A little more time. Some more observation. More careful examination of their interactions from this point forward. Then he’ll see where they go from here.

But for now, he has to answer Ember’s questions somehow. The second question is much easier, so he responds to that first. “Tiberius is a Peacekeeper. I ran into him in the outskirts of Two. He said he’d been searching for me, in the hopes that I’d survived long enough to come home, and that if I had, he wanted to find me before anyone else did. He told me about the bombs.”

“What happened to your brother when you left him?”

“Tiberius has the speed of a sloth. I outran him easily. I’m sure he gave up and returned to Two with no one the wiser about where he’d been.” Cato hopes that, at least. In truth, he has no idea what’s happened to Tiberius, if anyone realized what his brother had done. Unless by some miracle they make it to Thirteen, he’ll never know. Never know if Ty, a bitter man but still his brother, was punished for trying to help him. Never know if his family found out that Cato threw away the chance to return to them, never know if they forgive him for it.

Unless by some miracle they make it to Thirteen, he’ll never see them again. Never beat Ty in another sparring match. Never pick up and spin Laelia around again. Never attend Vespasia’s wedding. Never embrace his mother again. Never again hear his father’s rare praise. Cato might not have the seemingly picture-perfect family of the Abernathys, but it’s still his family.

Ember is watching his face, clearly realizing something is haunting his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” she asks softly.

“Family,” he answers simply.

She doesn’t ask for further details. She probably knows what he’s agonizing over, the sense of loss he’s feeling, even his guilty regret that he failed to see them one last time. Instead, she says, “I realized that Ced and I have it better than the rest of the pack on this journey. When we get to Thirteen, our parents and little sister will be there. No one else’s family will be. But that’s not to say everyone else is going to be alone.” She looks up at him. “Do you want to hear something cheesy?”

“Does it matter if I do or don’t? You’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you?”

Ember grins at him. “I think the twenty-four of us have already gone through so much together, and we’ll survive even more things together over the course of the many weeks ahead, that we could all be one big dysfunctional family of our own. Don’t you think?”

Cato hears her words, and he watches how that smile lights up her pretty features, and he thinks how despite everything weighing him down, somehow seeing and talking to Ember Abernathy has the preternatural ability to transport him beyond the reach of his earthly concerns. _And_ this _is why I came back._ And he’ll tell her so, one day, hopefully soon.

But not now.

He answers, “You’re right. That was the cheesiest thing I have ever heard.” She makes a face at him. He cracks a grin and adds, “But yeah. I think so, too.”

Ember smiles (he lives for those smiles), and she moves to pick up what appears to be a container of food. “Hungry?” The aroma of freshly-cooked meat drifts out of the tin. “By some miracle, Ced happened across what may be the last two squirrels in this part of the forest. There isn’t much, but I fought to make sure you had a few bites. Finch said you’d be waking up at any moment, and I figured fresh food is better than canned.”

Cato isn’t used to the wild game they’ve been eating, but meat is meat. Ember is awkwardly holding up the container and a fork, as if trying to decide whether to hand them to him or feed him. Well, there’s no way he’s _not_ going to take advantage of this. He makes the decision for her by opening his mouth and waggling his eyebrows in challenge. She narrows her eyes but takes him up on it.

Ember Abernathy is feeding him. He’ll cherish this memory forever.

The meager amount of squirrel is gone in an instant, and Ember switches it out for some crackers and dried apples. Cato eats those as well, but he notes the use of their supplies with concern. “Last two squirrels, you said? Tell me how bad the situation is.”

She frowns. “It took hours for the flames to die out. It was dark by the time we set up camp last night, so we only got a good look at the damage this morning. I was serious when I said it was a miracle Ced found those two squirrels. All the other game has fled, and not even Rue and Thresh’s best efforts turned up any results from foraging. And the river water is contaminated now.”

Cato absorbs this information quietly. “Shit,” he remarks.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Ember sighs. “Nobody’s happy about the fact that we can barely eat or drink anything this morning, but we all know it’s necessary to make the supplies last as long as possible. We have no idea when we’ll hit a part of the wilderness that was left untouched by the Capitol’s bombs. The blast radius seemed huge.”

He rubs the nape of his neck. “We’ll make it work. Pretty glad we invested that time to make the sled and haul it to the river, huh?”

“Ecstatic.”

Cato glowers at the remaining apple slices in the container. “I assume we still have around the same amount of supplies as the last time I checked.” The Cornucopia was stocked with enough food to keep six tributes—the usual number of Careers—well-fed for at least six weeks. That would last about three weeks for twenty-four people on half-rations, a little longer if they only eat the bare minimum to survive. They’ll have to pray hard that they reach the end of the blast radius long before those three weeks are up, because they still have a ways to go to Thirteen after that point, and Cato doesn’t fancy making most of that journey on little to no supplies.

In a moment of absurdity, he wonders if they’d be better off establishing a settlement somewhere, while there’s still time before winter sets in, but he quickly writes off that mad idea. Also, Ember is even more stubborn than him, and she isn’t going to stop slogging through the wilderness until she reaches Thirteen. So all he can do is help keep them all alive until either, by an even bigger miracle than Cedric finding two squirrels, all twenty-four of them survive to see District 13, or…

Well. _Let’s just hope we make it to Thirteen._ The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.

* * *

Cedric watches his sister feed Cato, and he wrinkles his nose. They’ve clearly made up. Blech.

It’s not that Ced dislikes Cato. He doesn’t. Honestly. He actually quite liked Cato, before he left and almost made Ember cry. Ced can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen his sister cry, or about to cry, and they all had to do with either their parents or their siblings or Madge. So Cato pushing Em to the verge of tears was a pretty huge deal, and not in a good way.

Ced remembers one time, when he was younger, how Mom and Dad got into a _huge_ fight. His parents do their best to keep their squabbles behind closed doors, where Cedric and his siblings can’t see, but this had been a fight that went well and beyond a mere squabble. Whatever it had been about, it ended with Dad slamming the door on his way out of the house and, shortly after that, Mom sobbing in the kitchen. Like Ember, Mom almost never cries, so little Cedric had been at a loss as to what to do. Em would’ve been better at comforting their mother, but his sister hadn’t been in the house at the time. Ced couldn’t just leave his mother like that, so he’d tiptoed to her side to see what he could do.

Seeing Mom’s tear-stained face, her red eyes, her utterly miserable expression...that had been the first time in Cedric’s young life that he’d been truly angry at his father. In his little heart, there was nothing on Earth that could possibly merit enough upset and anger for Dad to make Mom cry this hard. He hadn’t known what to do to make her feel better, except sit in her lap and comfortingly pat her hair with his chubby hands until Mom felt calm enough to go upstairs and lie down.

Then, Ced had gone out and sat on the front porch until his father came home. When Dad did, Ced saw how he was walking unevenly, and up close, he smelled that peculiar smell that he, young as he was, could identify as “the drinking smell.” Little Cedric hadn’t been too clear on the details, but he knew that Dad only had “the drinking smell” when things were very bad, and when he did have “the drinking smell,” Dad probably wasn’t in his right mind.

“You can’t come in,” Ced announced.

Dad blinked blearily at him. “What?”

“You have the drinking smell. You’re not allowed inside.” That was Mom’s rule, rarely needed, but enforced every time it was.

His father sighed. “Cedric, move. I need to talk with your mother.”

Ced stood in front of the door. “I won’t let you.”

“Cedric Abernathy, I am your father, and you will do as I say.”

He shook his head vehemently. “I don’t listen to people who make Mom cry.”

That had taken Dad aback. “She’s crying?”

“You don’t get to make her cry and then leave and then come back. And you’re mean when you have the drinking smell. I won’t let you make her cry again.”

Dad stumbled backwards then, muttering some very bad words. “Right. Right. You’re right.” He reached out and clumsily tousled Cedric’s hair. “You’re a good kid, Ced. I’ll...I’ll come back later.”

The next morning, Dad, without the drinking smell, spoke with Mom in their bedroom while Cedric and Ember ate breakfast. Then Dad came back down and took Ced outside.

“You did the right thing yesterday.”

Cedric picked at a loose thread on his shirt, unsure what to say.

“I wish you hadn’t seen me like that, but I’m glad you stopped me from coming inside in that state. You said I would make your mother cry again, and you were right, I probably would have.”

“You shouldn’t have made her cry in the first place,” Ced mumbled.

“No, I shouldn’t have.” Dad nudged Cedric until he was looking at his father. “I hope it never happens again. But if it does, I want you to do the same thing, Cedric. And not just when it’s your mother and me. If _anyone_ ever makes your mother or your sisters cry, you don’t let them get away with it. You don’t let them come back as if nothing happened. You don’t let them charm or bully their way back into her good graces. You do as you did yesterday, and you assume that if they hurt her once, they can very well hurt her again.”

Ced looked uncertainly at his father. “But Dad, what if it’s someone who’s bigger than me, like you? What if I can’t stop them like I stopped you?”

“Well, I obviously don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way, Ced. But you’re smart. Use that brain of yours.” Dad tapped his forehead. “Every situation is different. Use your best judgment and decide what to do from there.”

And Cedric had tried to do that yesterday, when Cato had come back, expecting them all, expecting _Ember,_ to believe him as if he hadn’t left them. Cedric had looked at Cato, and all he had seen was the guy who had made Em want to cry, who might be about to do something worse to her, to all of them, than make her cry again. In that moment, Cedric hadn’t seen Cato. He’d seen a Career. He’d seen a boy from a loyalist family in District 2. He’d seen someone who hurt his sister once, and who could very well hurt her again. So Cedric had been the sole dissenter yesterday, refusing to buy what he’d perceived as Cato’s lies.

A colossal error of judgment, one that Cato had paid for. And Cedric will never be able to forget it.

So no, Cedric doesn’t dislike Cato. He dislikes Cato making Ember cry.

Actually, there are multiple reasons for Cedric to _like_ Cato. For one, Cato has a way with the younger kids in the group. Ced is always at the front of the pack with the GPS, but he’s heard from Rue that when one of them, the younger ones, is struggling to keep up the pace, and Cato is in the vicinity on sled duty or keeping an eye out for danger, he doesn’t snap at them like Glimmer, or glare at them like Clove, or tease them like Marvel. What Cato does is give them a not-ungentle push and a gruff “Come on,” and he sticks with them until he’s sure they’re back on track. Of course, Ced has overheard Cato complaining many a time about how much dead weight the younger kids are—but Cedric, having grown up with a perpetually sarcastic father, places more stock in actions than in words, and Cato’s actions tell him that the younger kids aren’t going to be dumped in the woods anytime soon.

Also, as expected of a Career, Cato is _very_ good at fighting, and it’s really cool seeing him in action. When Ced wasn’t busy being afraid during the mutt fight and saving Ember from getting mauled, watching Cato and the other Careers taking down the mutts like a well-oiled machine was the most awesome thing ever.

Obviously, Cedric didn’t like Cato when they first met, and not only because the Career from Two wanted to kill him and Em at that time. Frankly, Cato was...well, an asshole. (Ced cringes as he thinks the word; he doesn’t like cursing.) But after Rain freed them all from the arena, he came to realize that most of Cato’s jerkiness was due to the Games. (Not all of it, though. During training before the Games, Mom and Dad were discussing the Careers, and Mom mentioned something about “alpha maleness,” which Ced _kind of_ understands, and to which he attributes some of Cato’s jerkiness.) And although Cato is still by far the scariest of all the tributes, that scariness is no longer directed at them.

Admittedly, Cato has committed some semi-unforgivable acts of nastiness, like abduct Ember into an elevator and say crude things to her that Mom refused to explain until Cedric was older, but Ced considers there to be two Catos: pre-Games Cato and post-Games Cato. Pre-Games Cato, Cedric would have been happy to shoot with his trusty bow and arrow, but so far, post-Games Cato has been pretty decent.

Except, you know, when he left them and almost made Ember cry.

Cedric remembers the two of them crossing the river together, and never once did he think Cato would lose his grip—and if Cato had, somehow Ced had felt assured that the tribute from Two would have dived into the water right after him. He also likes how Cato works _with_ Ember, rather than tries to superimpose himself as leader above her. And frankly, Ced thinks Cato and Em have been doing a pretty great job working together.

So when Cato left the group, it felt like a betrayal to Ced. And although Ced knew that he probably couldn’t do any lasting damage to the giant, muscular Career, he had still wanted to punch him in the face for hurting Ember. But he’d settled for letting Ember herself punch Cato.

Again, however, Cedric has difficulty holding onto his resentment. Cato _did_ save all their lives, especially his own. Cato could have safely made it to the river in time if he hadn’t been carrying Cedric, but he’d done it anyway. And during that moment when everyone realized the two of them weren’t both going to make it, Cato could totally have dropped Cedric and run. But he didn’t. He picked Cedric over himself, and he threw Cedric (Ced is small, but that still must have been one wicked adrenaline rush Cato experienced in order to find the strength to throw him like an oversized football), and he saved Cedric.

And now, Ced has to figure out a way to convey the appropriate sentiments to the Career.

Cedric really hates talking about feelings.

He drags his feet toward where Cato is reclining on the soot-covered ground. The older boy wanted to jump right back to work, sorting out supplies and exploring the area to see if anything was spared from the bombs, but the combined forces of Ember, Finch, Thresh, and Marvel have compelled him to stay where he is and rest. Cato sees Ced coming from a ways away and is waiting for him, an unreadable expression on his face.

Ced sits on the ground opposite him, criss-cross. An awkward silence falls over them for a few moments, as Cato looks at him and Cedric looks at anywhere but Cato. “So,” Cedric finally says, once he musters the nerve. “Uh. Thanks for saving my life.”

Cato just keeps looking at him, inscrutable as ever.

“And, um, thanks for coming back. We’d probably all be dead if it weren’t for you. Especially me.”

Still no words from the other tribute.

Cedric sucks on the inside of his cheek. “Aaaaaand...I’m sorry for doubting you and causing you to have to come back for me and get hurt.”

The Career keeps quiet.

This is not a very productive conversation. Cedric huffs. “Hey, I’m trying to apologize for messing up, and I really mean it. The least you could do is make some kind of noise of acknowledgement so I know you haven’t suddenly gone deaf or anything.”

“I believe you,” Cato finally says.

Ced blinks at him. “Then why aren’t you saying anything?”

“I’m trying to figure you out. The Cedric Abernathy from yesterday, calling me a liar and accusing me of working with the Capitol to trap everyone? Not the nerd I thought I knew.”

Cedric crosses his arms. “You must not have known me well, then. Because I’ve never been easy on anyone who makes Em cry.”

Cato looks sharply at him. “She cried?”

“Well...no. But she wanted to. Practically the same thing.”

The older boy frowns. “Yeah. You’re right. It is.”

There is something in Cato’s expression that uncomfortably reminds Cedric of how Dad looks when he realizes he’s hurt Mom’s feelings. Shame and regret, coupled with something else that Ced can’t quite pinpoint. “Did...Did you and Ember talk about...stuff?”

“We did.”

“Okay. That’s...good.” No need for Cedric to rehash everything, then. If Ember and Cato have settled things, then there’s nothing else Ced needs to meddle in—except maybe one thing. “So does she know that she’s the real reason you came back?”

Well, _that_ gets an interesting reaction out of Cato. The older boy recovers quickly, but not fast enough for Ced to miss it. Cato narrows his eyes. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“‘I’m on your side. Yours, Ember, if no one else’s,” Ced parrots to the best of his ability. “Sound familiar?”

They stare each other down. Cato says, “Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say she is why I came back. What are you going to do about it?”

Cedric squares his bony shoulders. “Well,” he says carefully, “that depends. If you have any plans to leave again, then I’m going to insist you tell her right away, because I don’t want her to get hurt again.”

Cato’s jaw clenches. Slowly, he shakes his head. “I’m committed to this group now. I’m going to see this adventure through, to whatever end.”

“What’s changed, since you left two nights ago? What’s keeping you here now?”

“You seem to have everything figured out. You tell me.”

Cedric props his chin on his hand. “I know it has to do with Ember. But she wasn’t enough to keep you here when you first left. Then you came back when you learned about the fire-bombs. You came back to save us from dying, and then you risked your life for me, even though I know you can’t like me that much. It all comes back to Em.” Cedric assesses Cato’s reaction. The Career’s expression is stony, but Cedric has come to suspect that in Cato’s case, the more he hides his feelings, the more intense they likely are. Cato is not the first person whom Ced has known who defends himself like this. “You like my sister, enough to come back for her when you thought we were going to die.”

Cedric thinks about all the people in the world who would do the same for Ember. Certainly not her one and only ex-boyfriend, Michetto Mellark, whom Ced had never particularly liked and who had always seemed more besotted with the _idea_ of Ember rather than Ember herself. But definitely Mom and Dad, no question. Rain, who has evidenced her willingness to risk herself for Ember, for him, by freeing them from the arena. Ashton, or at least the less broken version of Ashton, of whom Ced has faint memories from very long ago. Madge, who is more Em’s sister than cousin. Outside of their family, Cedric can only think of Katniss, Peeta, and Gale, but they’ve all known Ember for years and years and years.

Cato has known her for, what, a week?

Ced may only be twelve, but he’s had the misfortune of overhearing enough conversations between the older boys at school to know that some _likes_ go deeper than others. Whatever _like_ Cato is feeling for Ember, Cedric is sure it goes beyond simply thinking she’s pretty. And while Ced doesn’t want to talk about any kind of _like_ that any boy is feeling for his sister, this is at least the kind of _like_ he can live with.

The older boy has yet to respond to Cedric’s assertions. So Ced says, “Well...good luck, I guess.”

Cato looks at him quizzically.

“With you and Em or...whatever. I’m staying out of this.”

“You’re not going to run straight to her and spill about everything we just talked about?” Cato queries, somewhat disbelieving.

“Nah. Too much drama. Don’t wanna get involved.” Cedric stands up and starts to go, but before he leaves, he adds, “But if you hurt her again, I’ll fight you.”

That gets a laugh out of Cato. “I’m terrified.”

_He should be._ Not all fighting is physical, and Ced can be pretty devious with non-physical fighting, when he feels up to it. But hopefully there won’t be a need for it, because whatever his own feelings about this new situation, he definitely doesn’t want Ember to get hurt yet another time. And hopefully, if Ced has read the other boy correctly, Cato doesn’t want that, either.

Ugh. Thank goodness Cedric doesn’t have to deal with girls yet.

 

* * *

 

The lack of food and water quickly takes its toll on us all.

After just one day of recuperation, Cato insisted that we get moving again, and everyone else is antsy enough about the Capitol potentially swooping back to make sure they did their job that the majority agree with him. Dr. Finch reluctantly agrees, but for such a quiet girl, she is surprisingly fierce about not letting Cato do anything besides walk. She’s even confiscated his sword and entrusted it to Vidal on the sled, so it doesn’t irritate Cato’s back.

Now that he’s back in action, Cato has also implemented strict rationing. This is met mostly with understanding, although a few of the younger kids do grumble once in a while about their tummies. The Capitol’s fare must have truly spoiled us all, for us to have forgotten about the general lack of food in the Districts so quickly.

(Not that Ced or I have ever truly wanted for food. But sometimes, to ensure that we know what it feels like to go hungry and to prepare us for that sensation in the arena one day, Mom and Dad did cut down on our meals a lot as part of our training. They never did it without explaining exactly why they were doing it, so Ced and I never really resented it, although of course we didn’t like it, either.)

But a whole week of not eating or drinking enough makes its consequences apparent. Where once there were merely a few complaints of hunger, now people are either cranky and irritable or discomfortingly quiet, and everyone walks slower these days. Cato also has to change shifts on pushing and pulling the sled more frequently, because we tire so easily now.

“How are we not outside of the blast radius yet?” I mutter as we continue to see nothing but the burnt remains of trees and charred ground around us. And every time we stop to make camp, we check the river water, but it’s still visibly filthy from the ashes. I’m much more worried about the lack of clean water than the lack of game.

“Capitol wanted to do a thorough job,” Cato grumbles. I know for a fact that he has several handguns and knives on his person, but he still looks strangely vulnerable without his sword slung around his back. He’s also walking stiffly because of his wounded back and the bandages that Finch has to frequently change.

A commotion from the rear nabs our attention. Cato and I exchange a quick look before halting the column and hurrying toward the altercation. Vidal, whose leg has mostly healed but still requires him to rest on the sled every so often, is arguing with Bartel.

“What’s going on?” I ask loudly but calmly.

Vidal points at the boy from Seven. “He’s trying to steal supplies!”

“I’m not stealing!” Bartel bites back. “I just need to eat, okay? I’m starving!”

“You’ll get the same rations as everyone else later,” the usually mellow Vidal snarls with surprising vehemence.

Cato crosses his arms and stares down at Bartel. “We have rations for a reason. The system doesn’t work if people try to cheat it.”

“I had half a dried pear for breakfast. That’s nowhere near enough. You’re starving us, Two! Is that your plan? Kill us all slowly with starvation so you don’t have to get your hands dirty?”

Cato takes a menacing step toward Bartel, who retreats at first but then changes his mind and stands his ground against the larger boy. “No one here is eating any more than you, so quit whining. You know as well as everybody else that until we find a new food source, we can eat only what we need.”

“Aren’t the supplies supposed to be divided evenly between us all?” Bartel demands. “Why don’t you give me my share and I’ll decide what to do with it?”

“Guys. Calm down.” I move between them. “Look, we’re all hungry. We’re all cranky. We’re all tired. This is not the time to turn on each other.”

Another voice catches my attention. It’s Kit, Finch’s district partner. “We’re not even two weeks into the two months you said it’d take to get to Thirteen,” he says hollowly. “Is this what it’s going to be like from now until we get there— _if_ we get there?”

“We will get out of the blast radius eventually,” I say firmly. “The Capitol can’t have bombed the entire country. Once we do, we’ll find food and water again, and we won’t have to ration anymore.”

Kit looks unconvinced. “We’re close to one of the urban centers in Five, I think. Finch and I could make it there alone. We were pretty low-profile leading up to the Games, so I don’t think the Capitol will pay us much mind. And if we leave, you’ll have more supplies to go around.”

I look at Finch. She says nothing, and I can’t tell if she agrees with what Kit is saying. I try again, “Kit, we’ve established this before. None of us can return to the Districts. The Capitol wants us dead.”

“And if you and your partner suddenly turn up alive, they’ll know the rest of us are, too, and they’ll try to kill us again,” Cato adds. “I’m not going to let you endanger the group like that.”

“You’re one to talk about not leaving,” Bartel grouses.

“Enough!” I snap before a physical fight can break out. “It’s clearly time for a break. Let’s all stop and cool our heads, okay?”

They nod, but somehow, I’m not feeling reassured.

We no longer have snacks during breaks, for obvious reasons, and only so much water is portioned out. My throat is perpetually dry these days, but I don’t complain. I can’t. I’m supposed to be the one staving off complaints, so I keep my whining inside my head, where it can only irritate myself. Cato sits beside me once the water bottles finish going around. We’re usually back on the march at this point, but everyone is so visibly weary and sullen that not even Cato is going to make them get back on their feet just yet.

“Maybe it’ll rain today,” I tiredly joke, as I have every day this past week, but my heart is no longer in it. We are ready to bring out tarps and rig up rainwater receptacles at any given moment, but considering how perfectly blue and cloudless and hateful the sky is, we won’t be needing them any time soon. Funny how I would consider this the perfect weather back at home, but right here, right now, the summer sunshine isn’t doing much to cheer me up.

Cato scuffs his shoe on the ground. “And maybe a hovercraft from Thirteen will come today.”

Wistfully, I look heavenward. “I wonder why my parents haven’t hounded whoever’s in charge over there to pick us up already.”

“They haven’t forgotten you and your brother. They probably just don’t have as much authority as you think.”

“I wonder what it’s like in Thirteen.”

“Probably all mole people,” Cato comments.

My brow creases. “What do you mean?”

“If District 13 survived the Capitol’s nuclear attack seventy-four years ago, they must have had some kind of underground bunker to do so. It only makes sense for them to have remained underground all this time, to stay safe from the Capitol and avoid radiation, and it would explain why none of the rest of us have known about them. So if the district is underground, then most of their citizens must almost never see daylight or go aboveground.” He shrugs. “Mole people. It’s a phrase we use in Two.”

“Haven’t heard that one before.” I fold my legs so I can tuck my chin on my knees. “I can’t imagine being underground my whole life. I think I might almost prefer where we are now.”

“Same,” Cato agrees. “I think being outdoors all the time is the only thing I envy about the quarry people at Two.”

“Quarry people? Are they the same thing as mole people?”

“No, mole people are the ones who work in the Old Mine. See, at Two, most people go one of three routes: training at the Academy, working in the stone quarries, or making weapons in the Old Mine. It’s a mountain that the Capitol turned into a military base and weapons production facility.”

“I thought Three made weapons?”

“They design and build hi-tech weapons. We make the rest at Two.”

I nod. “I see. So, quarry people? Outdoors?”

“We mine stone in quarries aboveground. It’s different from the underground coal mining you have at Twelve. So if you work in the quarry, you’re outside almost the whole day. At the Academy, we do have some outdoor training, but our indoor facilities are so sophisticated that we can replicate most climate conditions inside. But you never forget that you’re really in a windowless room. It can get a bit suffocating sometimes.” He stretches. “But besides getting to be outside all the time, I don’t care for any other aspect of a quarry worker’s job. It’s tedious and labor-intensive. And I can’t really complain about the Academy, when the mole people don’t even get to pretend they’re outdoors. They’re stuck in the Old Mine all the time, sometimes for days on end.”

“So is that what you do with your free time at home? Go outside?”

Cato snorts. “Free time? What’s that? We head to the Academy straight after school, take a dinner break there, and don’t get home until late. On the weekends, we spend the whole day there. We only get one day off each year, and that’s on our birthday.” He kicks a few pebbles on the ground. “But yeah, on my birthday, I do burn most of the daylight outdoors. I go hiking, usually.”

“Alone or with a friend?”

“By myself. I...don’t have many friends in Two.” He sneaks a glance at me out of the corner of his eye. “The Academy takes up so much of your time, you really don’t have the chance to meet anyone else, except at school. I had a few classmates who were pretty all right.”

I tilt my head to the side. “But no Academy friends?”

“Everyone at the Academy is competing with everyone. If you want to be chosen to volunteer—which everyone does—then you can’t afford to be friends with the competition. Friendly, yes, but it’s all superficial. We send two tributes from Two every year, and only one at most will come home. It complicates things if the two going in are pals.”

I glance over at Cato’s district partner, who’s lazily throwing knives at knots on a nearby tree. “So you didn’t know Clove very well?”

“No. She’s in a different age group. It was actually very surprising that she was chosen to volunteer. We usually only let the eighteen-year-olds go into the arena, since they’re the most prepared and experienced.”

“Then is Clove some kind of prodigy?”

“She’s good at what she does, I won’t deny that. But…” Cato frowns. “Remember my older sister, Vespasia? She’s engaged to the Victor of the Sixty-Ninth Games, Sergius Graylee.”

I try to follow his train of thought. “Okay?”

“Sergius is Clove’s cousin on her mother’s side.”

...Huh. Small world. “And you still don’t know Clove that well?”

“Remember the whole nonexistent free time thing? On the occasions when our families cross paths, it’s very rare that one of us is present at any gathering of in-laws, let alone both of us. I guess what I’m trying to get at is, in Sergius and Clove’s little familial clan, Sergius is the golden boy. He won his Games, he’s respected in the district, and he’s getting married to my sister, the daughter of the most renowned and admired Victor ever in Two. Sergius is years older than Clove, but from what I’ve heard, her mother constantly compares the two of them, and Clove always comes up short. I don’t know the details, but Sergius pulled some strings with my father to get Clove as one of the nominees for the female volunteer this year, mostly to get Clove’s mother off his back. And honestly, Clove really is very skilled. She’s consistently ranked at the top of her age group. But imagine how much better Clove would be with three more years of training.”

An eighteen-year-old Clove in the Games sounds...nightmarish. This hypothetical Clove may have been even scarier than Cato. “Well. I guess nepotism is a thing in District 2.”

Cato makes a face. “Yes and no. My father wouldn’t have considered Sergius’s request if he didn’t think Clove equal to any of the older girls in the pool. Case in point: my brother Tiberius trained at the Academy for his entire childhood. Come his eighteenth year, he was expecting to be chosen as the male tribute. But our father didn’t even consider him as a nominee. Fact is, Tiberius just wasn’t anywhere near good enough to justify a nomination. It was the most humiliating moment of my brother’s life, but our father has never apologized for it. And he shouldn’t. You shouldn’t send someone to the arena if they aren’t ready. You’d just be throwing their life away.”

I meet Cato’s gaze. “Well, that’s how all the non-Career Districts feel about every tribute they send. I doubt Two would have sent someone like Ced or Rue or Jean.”

He looks down. “No, we wouldn’t have.” His gaze falls upon the kids I just mentioned, who, even in their tiredness, seem to be playing some kind of game with the other younger tributes. “How did your parents train you and your brother?”

I think back to “baseball games” in our backyard, where balls were forcefully pitched without warning to test our reflexes (bloody noses were not unheard of in our childhood), and we were ordered to swing the bat again if we didn’t do it hard enough the first time. I think back to pre-dawn runs in the winter, after waking up at an ungodly hour, made to jog until we could almost taste blood. I think back to illicit afternoons beyond the fence, in miserable torrential downpours and in sweltering midsummer heat, where Mom and Dad would play Careers—and sometimes they roped in Katniss and Gale, too—and Ced and I would have to do our best to hide or flee or fight.

And I think back to how every bruise and cut was lovingly treated, with quiet apologies and gentle touches, and usually a hug or a kiss when it was all done. And I think back to the anxiety and grimness and fear that haunted our parents’ eyes, as their minds roiled with thoughts about how the other tributes wouldn’t treat us with nearly as much tenderness in the arena. And I think back to how Ced and I have always tacitly understood that we would be grateful for these moments of pain with our parents one day, when our names were drawn from the Reaping bowl and we were made stronger by our temporary suffering.

My family’s training regime might not have been as strict as Cato’s at the Academy (I definitely recall having free time), but I doubt his was as full of love and kindness as mine. “It’s going to be a long story. Let’s get on the move again, and I’ll tell you while we walk.” We get everyone back on their feet, and as usual, Cato and I walk in the front beside Ced, who’s busy with the GPS.

Unusually, as I tell Cato about how my family trains, I feel the strange urge to take his hand. Although I’m able to resist the urge, it doesn’t quite go away, and I’m preoccupied by it for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor babies needed a nice fluffy break this chapter.
> 
> Over on FF.Net, I've been having a oneshot contest for this story, where I randomly select a reviewer to give me a Sweetest Mockery-related prompt for a oneshot that I'll write. So keep an eye out for that fic! Hoping to post around Valentine's Day.


	13. Chapter 13

 

The predawn light is scarce, casting the world in murky shades of blue, with a spritz of golden orange at the horizon. But Finch nimbly navigates her way between the slumbering teens and children, slinking toward the trees. A quick glance over her shoulder tells her that the two currently on the watch are still staring in different directions from her, trying not to nod off. Finch shakes her head at their incompetence and silently dashes into the forest.

Minutes later, she realizes she’s being followed. Heavy footsteps—one of the older members of the pack, probably a boy. And quiet footsteps—either naturally stealthy or trained to be. Two viable choices who the maker is, and she doubts it’s Cato, who would have called out to her by now to demand to know where she’s going.

Finch abruptly stops and turns around to look at Marvel.

He stops too, and his spear is noticeably absent. He has a contemplative, almost troubled expression on his face as he looks back at her. They stand in silence for several moments—Finch has no need to ask him why he’s following her (answer: to see what she’s up to), but why the normally gregarious Marvel is now reticent, she isn’t sure.

Finally, he caves. “Where are you going?”

Finch raises an eyebrow. It’s obvious. They’re close to a settlement in Five, near enough that if she hustles, she could be there by late morning.

Marvel realizes the blatant answer as well. “Is the nearby town your home?”

“My grandmother lives there.”

“I see. Well.” Marvel frowns, then bobs his head up and down. “Good luck, Finch.”

Not the reaction she was expecting from him—not that she’d really known what to expect from him in the first place. Finch prides herself on knowing how people’s minds work, and she could’ve predicted anyone else’s reaction if they were in Marvel’s place. Ember would have tried to reason with her, coax her into staying. Cato would have tried to bully her back to camp. Her district partner Kit would have wanted to tag along with her. But Marvel? For someone who’s so easy to understand, Finch finds that he’s still able to surprise her.

“You’re not going to stop me?” she queries, not entirely believing his willingness to let her go.

He shrugs, not looking as chipper as normal. “I’m not the boss of you.”

Finch doesn’t buy it. If it had been someone else he’d caught sneaking off, she doubts he would have let them go as easily as he is now. “Is that all?”

“No, but there’s no point in elaborating on anything else.” Marvel takes a few steps back. “I hope you’ll be okay, Finch.” He turns around and heads back to camp.

She stands there for a while longer, puzzling over his odd behavior, before turning the other way and moving on. She jogs as quickly as she can through the woods without prematurely exhausting herself. The town may be relatively close, but it’s not like it’s just over the next hill, so she has to pace herself. Finch only takes a few brief breaks (along the way, she observes how the burnt trees only start to become green again when she’s within two miles of the town, which means the Capitol cut it frightening close with the fire-bombs; they definitely did their best to exterminate the pack), and as she predicted, she arrives well before the sun reaches its zenith.

Her grandmother’s town, which has relatively low energy production, is much less fortified than other settlements in Five, like the city Finch resides in. It’s no hardship for her to find the gap in the fence that she used to sneak in and out of as a child, wriggle through it, and integrate herself with the townsfolk, with no one the wiser. She passes more than a few mockingjay symbols graffitied onto walls and public property, and she wonders at the meaning behind them.

Finch locates her grandmother’s house—it used to be her house, too—and knocks.

Nana answers the door, and her eyes bulge in shock. “Is that my little Goldfinch?”

“Hi, Nana,” she answers quietly.

“ _Oohhhh._ ” Her grandmother embraces her tightly. “I thought you were dead, you and all the other poor children in the arena.”

Finch almost relaxes into Nana’s hug, but she can’t afford to just yet. “Nana, I’ll tell you what’s been going on, but we have to get inside the house now, before someone sees me.”

Her grandmother reacts quickly, and after ushering Finch inside, Nana shuts the door. “You look even thinner than usual! Let me make something for you while you tell me what happened after that Gamemaker Abernathy girl did whatever she did to the arena.”

As Nana rustles up a meal, Finch explains. “Rain Abernathy brought down the arena’s cameras and force field so we tributes could escape. Her sister Ember, one of Twelve’s tributes, received some instructions from her family about what to do. The group has been trying to get to District 13.”

“All twenty-four of you? That whole distance? On foot?”

“Yes.”

Nana sets the plate before Finch, who digs in hungrily. “And did that awful commotion with the Capitol’s bombs have something to do with you?”

Finch nods, swallowing. “They tried to kill us. But we survived.”

“Goodness.” Nana sits down beside her. “So it’s thanks to Rain Abernathy that you’re here with me instead of in that awful arena. I owe so much to that poor girl.”

“Poor girl?” Finch echoes, curious about her grandmother’s choice of words.

“The Capitol aired a mandatory broadcast several days ago. It was that Snow again, but this time he had Rain Abernathy sitting next to him. She didn’t say anything, just sat there.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s obvious that the girl is pregnant.”

_Pregnant._ Ember never mentioned that. “Are you sure, Nana?”

“Very sure. I’ve seen countless pregnant women in my day, Finch. That girl must be around four and a half months. Her parents must be so worried.”

Finch picks up her glass of water and drains it. “Do you know what happened to Haymitch and Maysilee Abernathy?”

“The Capitol has said nothing about them, so I assume those two escaped somehow.” Nana shakes her head. “You’ll never believe what’s been happening in the district—in all the Districts.” And in a hushed voice, as if afraid someone could hear, “ _Rebellion._ ”

“I know.”

Nana blinks. “You do? How?”

Finch thinks about the two dead Peacekeepers and decides she’d rather not go into that. “It’s a long story. Could you clarify what you mean by ‘rebellion’?”

“It isn’t as prevalent here, but I’ve heard that in other towns and cities in Five, there are full-out riots. When the Games ceased to be aired, when the Capitol lost control, people saw it as a sign that it’s time to rise up, at long last. Most of the power plant workers in Five have stopped working, and it’s caused the Capitol some serious problems. I think similar things are happening in other districts, and everyone’s saying how District 13 still exists and is leading the rebellion, but no one knows anything for sure. Everything is so uncertain.”

Finch refills her glass and drains it again. “Why are there mockingjays everywhere?”

“For the Abernathys, of course. Maysilee Donner’s famous pin. She and her husband, the Mockingbird and the Jabberjay, and their children the Mockingjays. The family’s all but become the face of the rebellion.”

When Ember speaks of her family, she makes them all sound so... _normal._ It’s hard to imagine her parents, her siblings, and Ember herself being symbols. But when Finch thinks about it, it makes sense. All of Panem knows how the Abernathys have suffered over the years: the eldest son was reaped and broken by his Games, the eldest daughter was turned into a Gamemaker, and this year was supposed to have ended in tragedy for Ember or Cedric, or both.

And all of Panem knows how the Abernathys have survived, and how they have at long last struck back, with Rain Abernathy oh-so-publicly demonstrating that the Capitol isn’t infallible after all.

The Abernathys represent every parent who has ever feared for their children. They represent every child who has ever been lost to the Games, whether or not they came back out alive. They represent everyone who has ever been forced to do the Capitol’s bidding. And they show how despite everything the Capitol has done, they can still fight back.

Maybe it’s not so surprising they’ve become symbols.

Finch thinks about how despite her solitary past, despite her former low opinion of the other girl (Finch used to think, based on the Abernathy TV specials, that Ember was a reckless hothead with more bark than bite; she now stands corrected for the most part, but Ember is still a hothead), somehow Ember has become her friend. It’s hard for someone to make Finch like them, but Ember’s done it. Finch doesn’t think Ember realizes just how charismatic she can be—look at how she’s managed to compel all twenty-four of them to stay together for this long, Kit (idiot) and Bartel (bigger idiot) notwithstanding. It certainly isn’t Cato inspiring the group to stick together. If the rest of her family is like that, then it’s no wonder that most of the country wants to follow them.

It’s just past noon. Finch’s disappearance has for sure long since been discovered, even if Marvel kept quiet about seeing her. Judging by how he so readily let her go, for whatever reason, she thinks he did keep mum. It puzzles her how downcast he seemed when he walked away from her. It’s not like the two of them are particularly close, even if he does sometimes wander up to her for no apparent reason to commence small talk (she hates small talk). She’d chalked it up to his natural amiableness, but amiableness wouldn’t account for his put-out behavior this morning. Something to mull over later.

Right now, it’s Ember’s reaction that preoccupies her. If Ember sees her as a friend, just as how Finch has begun to view her, then the other girl would not have been happy to realize she was gone. Would she have been angry? Or sad, like Marvel? (Either way, Cato was probably there to ease her upset. Watching those two interact has been Finch’s primary form of entertainment these last few weeks.) Friends have been few and far between in Finch’s life, and in the past it’s always been her who tried harder in the friendship, both to start it and to keep it. This time, it was Ember who put in more effort, and for once Finch was the one being sought out. And now, it bothers her that her one current friend probably thinks less of her because she left, “betrayed” the group as Cato tried and failed to do not long ago.

Finch has been quiet for a while, thinking, but Nana has made no comment, just silently drinking her tea as she waits for her granddaughter to emerge from her reverie. When Finch does, she feels stifled by her thoughts. She needs to leave the house, get some air (as if she hasn’t been outdoors enough the last two weeks). So she murmurs to Nana, “I’m going to see Todd.”

Her grandmother gazes at her with dark eyes, the same as Finch’s, but far wiser. “Be careful, Goldfinch. You don’t want to be seen, do you?”

Finch nods and quickly exits the house. She doesn’t go far, just into the backyard, a small square surrounded by a high wooden fence. A swinging bench, where Finch used to spend many a summer’s day reading, occupies most of the space. She sits there, causing it to creak, and she gazes at the only other object in the yard: a little stone fox perched upon a mound of grass, marking where her little brother’s ashes are buried.

Finch doesn’t speak. It’s silly to talk to dead people. Dead is dead, their souls aren’t floating around in the air, hoping for conversation. She just wants to sit there and look at the statuette of the animal she despised as a child (one too many comments about her appearance), but which Todd loved for being his namesake. Her brother had hair even redder than hers, but a round, chubby face where hers is long and narrow. The age difference between them had been small, but it still felt like she was taking care of him most of the time; he’d been slower to develop than other children his age, and Finch had been one of the few people who knew how to handle him the right way. One of her greatest fears had been that he would be reaped one day, and he would have no chance because he’d be so confused and freaked out by everything that was happening, and no one else, not his mentor or escort, would care to even make him feel better before he was slaughtered.

Her fears had been for naught. He’d died from a freak illness that had killed him just as suddenly as it had crept up on him, at age eight, well before he was Reaping eligible. After they’d buried him, her father accepted a new job and packed up himself, her mother, and Finch for another city in the district, leaving Nana behind with the small house Finch had grown up in and the little stone fox.

Ember takes care of Cedric much like how Finch had taken care of Todd. But while Finch had been so focused on her little brother to the point that nothing else mattered, Ember also has to devote time to being a leader, which she does so thoroughly that Finch doubts she leaves any time for herself. Ember is always one of the first to awake and last to go to bed, she never eats until everyone else has food (Finch disapproves of Ember’s dietary habits; even accounting for the fact that they’re rationing, she still eats and drinks too little, often giving some of her share to Cedric), she carefully balances others’ advice with her own knowledge, she is quick to respond to problems that arise, she listens to everybody’s concerns with their due attention, and she talks to all twenty-three other kids at least once every day to make sure everyone is doing fine.

Including Finch. Especially Finch, even. Cato is by far Ember’s number one confidante, and vice versa, but Finch gets the impression that she’s her number two. She knows that there are plenty of worries preoccupying Ember, but when addressing the group at large, Ember does her best to keep up her game face, although it certainly slips at times. But the important thing is she tries, very hard. And she doesn’t give up.

In comparison, the moment the opportunity arose, Finch took off for her grandmother’s, where she filled her belly and slaked her thirst and sat down in a real chair for the first time in weeks. She herself isn’t entirely sure what she was thinking when she left the pack this morning, just that she wanted to go home (this might be Nana’s house, not hers, but it’s more her home than her parents’ apartment in the city ever was).

Just like Cato wanted to go home.

Just like Ember wants to go home.

Just like they all want to go home. But she’s the only one who’s actually gone back.

Finch squeezes her eyes shut. It’s so, so, so tempting to stay here at Nana’s house, where there is food and water and comfort, rather than going back to rejoin a group of fugitive teenagers and preteens tromping through the woods. She knows all the arguments that have been brought up against anyone going back to the Districts, and she’s thought of ways to rebuke them all. Someone is bound to recognize her? Not unless she hides inside the house most of the time, which would be suffocating, but she could do it. And Finch is sneaky. No one noticed her on her way here, and she was in plain sight. She could stay. She could get away with it.

...But it wouldn’t be right. Dammit, Ember’s righteousness is rubbing off on her.

And she’s the only one with more-than-basic knowledge of medicine. The lot of them would probably all die from flesh wounds or something else easily treatable without her. God knows it’s a miracle that Cato recovered from his burns as well as he did. Finch had been fully expecting him to contract an infection from all that time in the river, even with the Capitol medicines she’d applied in the hopes of staving it off. He is one lucky bastard.

Her decision made, Finch reaches out to rub the fox’s head before going back inside. Nana is waiting for her, a lumpy sack on the table. “You’re leaving to go back to the others,” her grandmother states.

“How did you know?” Finch is genuinely surprised. Nana knows that, ever since Todd died, Finch has put herself first—her needs, her wants, her comfort. Staying with Nana is putting herself first. Returning to the pack is not.

“I know you, Goldfinch. You’re not as selfish as you think you are.” Nana holds out the small sack. “It’s not much, but it’s all the food I could give you to take back.”

Finch bites her lip. “Nana, you don’t have that much in the first place. You need to eat, too.”

“I’m old. I’ve eaten plenty in my lifetime.” Nana pushes the bag into Finch’s hands. “Be careful out there, Goldfinch.”

If Finch lingers, she might change her mind, so immediately after a quick hug farewell, she leaves. She exits the town the same way she came in, and just as unnoticed as before. Now properly fed and hydrated, the return journey goes by faster than on the way to town, and Finch soon finds some tracks left behind by the group. It’s late afternoon by the time she catches up, ignoring how every stares at her as she jogs up (much as they stared when Cato returned) and then slows down to match Ember’s pace at the front.

The look alone on her friend’s face upon seeing her is almost worth coming back.

Ember interrogates her during dinner, but Finch doesn’t feel attacked. On the contrary, she kind of feels like this is Ember’s way of welcoming her back into the fold: a little tough love, but eventually, all is forgiven. Finch answers all of Ember’s questions, and she explains what she learned from Nana. Ember listens calmly to everything—until Finch mentions that Rain Abernathy is pregnant. The other girl reacts almost violently.

_Oh. Looks like she didn’t know._

When Finch has nothing left to report, she is released, and she watches as Cato takes her place next to Ember. It’s obvious that he’s mad for her, judging by how intently he listens to practically everything she says. And not just right now—all the time, whenever Ember Abernathy opens her mouth and words come out.

“Hey, Finch.”

She looks at Marvel, who sits down beside her.

He clears his throat. “I’m glad you came back. Gave me a scare this morning.”

Ah, yes, that enigmatic encounter. She has questions about that. “I thought about staying in Five.” And to be honest, when she left that morning, she really didn’t think she would return to the group. She’d been prepared to permanently abandon them.

“Why didn’t you?” There’s no judgment in Marvel’s voice, just curiosity. It baffles her. She’s not even sure what exactly about it baffles her, just that it does.

“Only medic in the group.”

“But it wouldn’t have been your problem if you’d stayed home, would it?” Again, no judgment or sneering. Just a statement of fact.

_Baffling._

“No. But the idea didn’t sit well with me.” It’s her turn to ask _him_ a question. “Why were you so upset when I left this morning?”

Marvel blinks. “Wow. You’re direct, aren’t you?”

“I don’t see the point in dancing around the subject. It wastes everyone’s time.”

“Too true.” He cracks a grin. “Well, you’re a pretty cool person, Finch. When someone manages to get you to say more than two words, you say interesting things that make me think. I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth, and I like how it keeps me on my toes. If you had left, I would’ve missed all that.”

Oh. Well. Finch wasn’t expecting that—not that she knew what she was expecting. She never does with Marvel. Never has she met anyone so simple yet complex.

So, he likes to hear her talk, rare as that may be. As Finch muses on the implications of this revelation, her gaze drifts back over to Ember and Cato, the former of whom looks more at peace after having conversed with the latter.

_He likes to hear her talk, too._

And then it hits her. The real reason Marvel was upset.

Shit, she is _so_ not ready for this.

 

* * *

 

The echo of the last gunshot fades away, and Maysilee takes a deep breath as she removes her ear-muffs, dimly satisfied upon seeing that all her shots have hit the target on the firing range.

“I see your aim’s still as good as ever, Donner.”

“It’s not so hard when you imagine the target is Snow.” She leans against her husband, and they admire her handiwork. “How was sparring with Finnick?” While Maysilee excels at fighting from a distance, Haymitch is better with encounters that are up close and personal. Their complementary styles served them well during their Games.

“Arrogant upstart. He isn’t as good as he thinks he is, without his trident.”

“He beat you?”

“It was a draw.”

“I’m sure. Where’s Summer?”

“With the upstart.”

Finnick Odair is quite good with children. “Finnie,” as Summer calls him, was among the rebel Victors who escaped with the Abernathys from the Capitol. He, like everyone else in Thirteen, is anxiously awaiting news from the Districts. Some individuals—Annie Cresta and Mags among them—were identified by Thirteen as potential high-profile targets for the Capitol and were slotted for evacuation as soon as possible, but the rapidly igniting rebellion and the Capitol’s watchfulness of Paneme airspace have complicated matters.

Coin claims that District 13 is limited in where they can send their hovercrafts, which means no rescue mission for Rain, no searching for Ember and Cedric, and no scouting out District 12 for news of Ashton, their family, and their friends. And because so many of their children’s statuses are precarious or unknown, she and Haymitch have been deemed “compromised” so have yet to be given the authority in the rebellion that they were previously promised. And because so many of their children’s fates are unknown, they might be called guilty of spoiling Summer, the only child of theirs safely within their grasp, with Maysilee constantly cuddling her and Haymitch carrying her around far more often than a six-year-old ought to be.

All in all, Maysilee is not a happy camper, and she spends much of her time blowing off steam by pretending she’s riddling Snow with bullets.

“May,” her husband says in a wistful voice, “how far along do you suppose Rain is?”

Their eldest daughter’s presence in Snow’s latest propo had brought them both delight and dismay. Delight, because they had proof she was still alive. Dismay, because the situation was even more complicated than they thought, and the stakes have been raised, which was certainly Snow’s intention when he put Rain on air with him. The two of them have spent hours replaying the propo—on mute, because no one wants to hear Snow’s sanctimonious voice—staring at Rain, trying to determine if she’s been tortured. They didn’t see any bruises or injuries, and Maysilee didn’t see anything in her daughter’s eyes to cause her dread about her mental state. But perhaps her maternal intuition has grown slack in Rain’s case, for she has seen her eldest girl so rarely these last few years, ever since Rain officially committed to being a Gamemaker. Maysilee fears she may no longer know her as well as she once did. “Four or five months. It’s a little hard to tell. She’s always been such a skinny girl.” The bulge of Rain’s stomach is not prominent, but certainly visible through her clothing. It hurts Maysilee that her daughter didn’t let her know to expect a grandchild, but sometimes she wonders if Rain kept it such a secret because she knew all this—her arrest, her imprisonment—would happen, and that there was a chance Maysilee might not be a grandmother after all.

(Horrible thoughts. She brushes them away. She can’t afford to linger on them.)

“Do you suppose it’s a boy or girl?”

Maysilee shrugs. “There’s no way for us to know. I’d be happy with either.” She can spoil either one just the same.

“And what do you suppose that fiance of hers is up to?” Haymitch growls.

Seneca Crane has been an important part of their daughter’s life since she was sixteen, and Maysilee sensed early on that Rain had an unrequited crush on the older man. It hadn’t preoccupied her overly much, since it seemed like the normal first love of any young girl. But as most girls do, Rain grew up, and Seneca Crane noticed. Thanks to Rain’s almost daily phone calls, Maysilee has been kept very up-to-date on her daughter’s life at the Capitol (but they never speak of anything incriminating, because they and Haymitch are more than aware their phones are bugged), which includes her relationship with the Head Gamemaker. Maysilee knew early in their relationship that Rain felt deeply for him, but she hadn’t been assured that her daughter’s feelings were returned until she and Haymitch finally met Seneca Crane for the first time, at one of those Games functions where it’s normal for Victors and Gamemakers to mingle. Like Rain, Seneca is good at concealing his thoughts and emotions—but Maysilee is even better at discovering them. It had been obvious to her—and a begrudging Haymitch, who’s always been wrapped around his daughters’ little fingers—that Seneca adored Rain, and she’d felt assured that her eldest girl had found a good man who would take care of her, even if he did make a career out of killing children.

But now, with Rain under arrest for treason, Maysilee wonders what the man who supposedly loves her daughter—who is the father of Rain’s child—is doing. With the Hunger Games effectively cancelled, there’s been no need for the Head Gamemaker to make televised appearances, so she has no idea whether the lack of mention of Seneca Crane is due to him keeping his head down and doing nothing, or him having tried to do something and paying the price for it. Maysilee isn’t sure which she would prefer, because the former means the man might not love her daughter as she had thought, while the latter means he does love Rain, and now he’s in a bad place because of it.

“Whatever he may or may not be doing,” she tells Haymitch, “we can’t count on him. We can’t count on Thirteen. We can’t count on the rebellion. The only ones we can count on are ourselves. We’re the only ones we can trust to prioritize our children. Not Plutarch, not Coin.” Both their faces darken at the mention of the latter.

The president of Thirteen, contrary to feeling indebted to Rain for igniting the rebellion, actually thinks their daughter did the rebel cause a disservice. Coin believes the rebellion would have benefited from another year of preparation and setting the stage, but the Abernathys’ insistence on not sacrificing two of their children to the Games forced her to act. Coin would have preferred it if the Games had gone on as intended, would have left Ember and Cedric and the twenty-two other children to fight to their deaths in the arena, if it weren’t for the Abernathys’ intervention.

Who knows? Perhaps Coin is right, and in the big picture, it would have been better to wait a year. But Maysilee’s priority is not the big picture. Although the rebellion is something for which she feels strongly and would sacrifice many things—even her life, if necessary, because a successful rebellion would mean a better world for everyone, including her family—she would gladly let it all go to hell if she had to choose between it and any one of her children. So would Haymitch. So would Rain, for her siblings. Such is why the Abernathys overrode Coin’s objections, asserting that they would be breaking out Ember and Cedric with or without Thirteen’s support, thus forcing her hand and extorting her help, lest the Abernathys fail and set back the rebellion.

And now Coin is punishing their “insubordination” by declaring the two parents compromised. Which Maysilee supposes they are. It just aggravates her to admit that Coin is right. She and that woman simply don’t get along.

“At least we know Rain is well,” her husband murmurs. “But we have no idea where Em and Ced are, or if they’re even alive.”

“Haymitch…” Maysilee runs her fingers through the hair on the back of his head, and as usual, it works like a charm. Her husband closes his eyes, the lines of his face relaxing as he leans into her touch. All that’s missing is the purring, otherwise he’d be just like a cat. “They’re alive. We would know if they weren’t.” Call it wishful thinking, but Maysilee is of the belief that if any of her children died, she would know. She would feel a permanent shift in the world, a part of her life snuffed out, a pervading emptiness. She just can’t believe that any of her children would die without her knowing something is horribly wrong.

“What do you suppose those two are up to now?” Haymitch asks quietly. “With the twenty-two other poor schmucks?”

They had reasoned a while ago that if Ember had done as instructed, taken supplies and left the arena with Cedric, they probably hadn’t left alone. If Maysilee recalls correctly, her two children had been pretty friendly with some of the younger tributes, and she could easily see Ember taking them along with her and her brother. And it wouldn’t have been hard for the rest of the seventeen or so tributes to realize that Ember had the information needed to get to safety and, as a result, gravitate toward her. It had seemed absurd at first, imagining all twenty-four children escaping as a group, but the more Maysilee had thought about it, the more realistic—probable, even—it had seemed. Her daughter has never liked leaving anyone behind. When she and Haymitch had explained their reasoning, District 13’s leaders thought it sound, so the official assumption is that all twenty-four tributes are traveling as a group somewhere between the arena and Thirteen. But nothing can be confirmed, because of Coin’s reluctance to send hovercrafts so close to Capitol airspace.

Sometimes, Maysilee gets the impression that Coin is _hoping_ the tributes will die, so they can be used as martyrs for the rebellion. But if Coin ever tries anything to hurt her children, Maysilee knows for a fact that she’ll kill the gray-haired hag first.

“I hope they’re safe,” Maysilee says. “I hope they’re eating well. I hope they might even be having fun.” Usually, when a bunch of teenagers get together, they don’t try to kill each other. They make friends. Maysilee hopes for that, too.

And she hopes, although it will take much time under even the best circumstances for such a large group of children to reach Thirteen, that sooner rather than later, she’ll hold her children again.

“Not too much fun,” Haymitch mutters.

Maysilee turns to her husband. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It might just be my imagination, but I got the impression that the District 2 punk had a thing for Em. Hopefully he’s had the good sense to leave her alone.”

Ah, that’s right. She never told her husband about Ember’s encounters with the Career at the Tribute Center. Now is probably not the best time to educate him. “I’m sure Ember can handle him.” But now Maysilee’s own misgivings about the boy—she’s fairly sure some of his actions toward her daughter count as sexual harassment—are coming back. So she changes the topic of conversation to another of their children. “Cedric is probably taking up most of her time, anyway.”

“Ced is relatively low-maintenance. Give him something new to poke at and he’ll be happy.”

Maysilee would have phrased it differently, but what Haymitch said is essentially true. Her younger son has always been content to amuse himself.

Her elder son’s choice of amusements, on the other hand, she cannot sanction. And now her thoughts turn to him, her sad little boy whom she will always worry about. “Do you suppose Ash and everyone got out?”

Both she and her husband are excellent schemers, but Haymitch favors thinking quickly on his feet, while Maysilee is more of a long-term planner. So several months ago, when Rain communicated to her parents that this was the year the Capitol intended to rig the Reaping and send another Abernathy to the arena—perhaps even two, but either way Maysilee and Haymitch could not consign a single one of their children to the Games again, not after Ash—Maysilee sure as hell planned for the safety of their loved ones when the Capitol inevitably retaliated after they sabotaged the Games. There was no way Snow would leave alone any of the Abernathys’ friends and families left behind in Twelve—so Maysilee made sure they wouldn’t be left behind.

Her twin sister Marjorie. Her niece Madge, who is also Ember’s best friend. Her brother-in-law Basil, who unfortunately refused to leave Twelve last time they’d argued, believing he had a duty to protect the district’s populace from whatever the Capitol might do, even at the risk of his own safety and life. Rosemary Everdeen, all but a second sister to Maysilee, and her two daughters. All the Hawthornes, the family left behind by the long-deceased Dell Hawthorne, who used to run around with Haymitch and Jonquil Everdeen as boys in the Seam. Peeta Mellark, one of Ember’s close-knit group of friends, whose father Maysilee knew growing up—and with Peeta and Farll come the rest of their family, so really, all the Mellarks. Even poor Farll’s harridan of a wife.

The seven of them—Maysilee, Haymitch, Marjorie, Basil, Rose, Hazelle, and Farll—agreed that their children should not be informed of any rebellion or escape plans until after the Abernathys departed for the Capitol. It was key that Ember did not know, because even though Maysilee’s daughter tries to mask them, she can’t help wearing her emotions openly, and they could not afford for her to display too much hope in front of the Capitol and draw suspicion. The parents knew that if they knew anything, Madge, Katniss, Gale, and Peeta would all be tempted to tell her, or might accidentally let something slip. But once Ember was gone, the children should by all means be warned to be prepared for flight.

They would have to act the instant the televised feed from the Games was cut off, whenever that may have been—certainly none of them had expected Rain to do it as early as the countdown—and be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. What worried them were the Peacekeepers, because it would be no difficult feat for Snow to pick up the phone and order Cray to have them rounded up before they had a chance to get away.

That was where Ashton came in.

Maysilee remembers that late winter day, when she went to the dilapidated house where her eldest son and child lives. She’d found him passed out on the floor and had waited for him to wake up. When he did, without beating around the bush, she told him, “Your younger sister and brother are in danger.”

His gray eyes, so like his father’s, grew clearer than they had in years.

Over the next few months, as Ash tried and failed and tried and failed to become sober, but finally became clean _enough_ that they could trust him, she and Haymitch worked out their son’s role in their plans. It was Ash’s job to create a distraction for the Peacekeepers, leading them away from the fence, which was everyone’s escape route. Once the Peacekeepers were far away, Ash was to join the others, and they would all quietly disappear.

And if any straggling Peacekeepers gave them trouble, Ash was to kill them. That had been his suggestion.

Neither Maysilee nor Haymitch wanted their son to kill anyone, not even Peacekeepers. But when they had argued with him about it, Ash had pointed out bitterly, “I’m already a killer. What’s a few more?” His parents, who knew _exactly_ where he was coming from, tried to explain that it did matter, but as with every time someone brings up something that reminds him of his Games, Ash’s walls flew up, and nothing she or Haymitch said could make it through to him.

The entire scene on the train, on the way to the Capitol, had been staged. Ashton hadn’t been nearly as wasted as he’d seemed, although Maysilee doubts her son was entirely sober, either. It had been the best way to ensure Ashton remained in Twelve without drawing suspicion, and too last minute for any Peacekeepers or Capitol attendants to intervene. His parents’ dislike of his never-ending state of drunkenness was well-known. It wasn’t so out of the question that his father would force him off the train if he got out of line, harassing and terrifying his own siblings.

Still, Maysilee hadn’t expected her husband to literally throw their son off. She hadn’t been happy about that.

Once the group of fugitives was out of the district, it would be up to Ashton to guide everyone toward Thirteen, hopefully with a hovercraft picking them up somewhere along the way so they wouldn’t have to make the whole journey on foot. (It doesn’t escape Maysilee’s notice that this is precisely what Ember and Cedric are attempting right now, and from an even greater distance.) But why put Ashton in charge? Why her poor son, who can barely function without harmful substances?

The fact is, as perpetually drunk and high and broken Ash may be, her elder son has a prodigious memory when he isn’t wasted—one to rival Cedric’s—and a sly, fluid kind of intelligence that’s an almost perfect imitation of Haymitch’s. There was no way Maysilee and the others could put any information about Thirteen down on paper, lest the Capitol find it, which meant it had to be given directly to somebody who could be trusted to remember _everything._ So over the course of those several months, Maysilee and Haymitch met with Ashton in secret and fed him information bit by bit until everything he needed to take their family and friends to safety was snug inside his head. During the last of these clandestine meetings, Maysilee had looked into her son’s eyes and seen the long-absent determination and fire that had once been so characteristic of her eldest, and it gave her hope that they might be able to pull this off.

But there has been no communication from Twelve since before the Games were abruptly ended. So the fates of Ashton, Marjorie and her husband and daughter, the Everdeens, the Hawthornes, and the Mellarks are unknown.

“If they were killed or captured,” Haymitch answers, “you can be sure that Snow would be holding them over our heads, like he is with Rain.”

Maysilee sighs quietly. She wants to believe him, but so many things are uncertain right now that she’s afraid to hope about anything, lest one thing go wrong and everything else tumbles down after it.

The door bangs open as Plutarch abruptly enters the indoor shooting range. “We have news.”

“About whom?” Maysilee exclaims, spinning around to face him, as does Haymitch.

“The hovercraft carrying the evacuated Victors and other targets arrived. Everyone on board had plenty to report.”

Evacuated Victors? “Annie Cresta? Mags?” Maysilee asks, thinking about Summer’s Finnie, about the boy Victor who understands Ash like no one else can, about Finnick who has looked out for her younger children when their own older brother couldn’t.

“They were on board, unharmed.”

“What are the evacuees saying?”

“There are rebellions in nearly every district. One and Two are staunchly loyalist, as expected. A few outlying Districts haven’t acted either way yet. But because rebellion is sparking so fast, the Capitol has lessened their vigilance over airspace in favor of concentrating on key districts, hence how the hovercraft was able to finally fly back here. They flew over Twelve on the way, and although there wasn’t much they could tell from the air, it seemed to them that there wasn’t much out of the ordinary in the district. We should be able to send another craft out soon to look for your son and the group with him.”

“Anything about Ember and Cedric?” Haymitch asks hoarsely.

Plutarch hesitates, his eyes downcast. Maysilee’s stomach plummets. “The Capitol bombed a large portion of the woods near Districts 2 and 5…” As the former Gamemaker continues with his grave explanation, her body grows more and more numb, until she can feel nothing at all, and Haymitch’s disbelieving shouts are muffled as her head swims and a dull buzzing fills her ears.

There has been a permanent shift in the world, and she never felt a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter killed me. Overhauled it several times. This is DRASTICALLY different from the original draft.
> 
> In other news, I am now studying abroad! I’ll be doing my best to keep up my current updating pace, but I’m expecting to get very busy very soon, so we’ll see what happens. The key to consistent and faster updates is comments, so make of that what you will. ;)
> 
> Also, to highlight just how influential comments can be on my writing: part of the reason this chapter was so overhauled was because I have gotten multiple requests on FF.Net for more Farvel. Not from that many readers, but a small handful who repeatedly mention in their reviews how much they love Farvel. I got the hint, and I adjusted accordingly, even though I had written the previous draft of this chapter quite a while ago. Even just one reader, if they’re vocal about their desires, could be enough to influence me to change how an upcoming chapter goes. Finch’s disappearance and return were originally told from Ember’s POV, but in order to increase the dosage of Farvel, that was rewritten into what you see now.
> 
> With all that being said...please comment. :)


	14. Chapter 14

Fourteen:

It hasn’t been often these last few years that Haymitch has felt the need for a drink. It’s hard to forget the horrible effect that alcohol had on him, during those dark times after his and Maysilee’s Games. He’d known that he had hit rock bottom when, shortly after Ash and Rain were born, Maysilee banned him from seeing them. No father was better than a drunk father.

Haymitch had tried to clean up really quickly after that, with help from his old friends Jon Everdeen and Dell Hawthorne. But it had been Maysilee, who’d seen how hard he was trying, who had been his real saving grace. In the end, Haymitch hadn’t missed out on too much time with the twins, but every day he’d been absent from their lives had been a day too many.

The stress of all the last few months, of plotting how to get his children out of the arena and to join up with District 13, had exploded the evening of the tributes’ session with the Gamemakers, when Ember announced that she’d set a mannequin version of her own sister on fire. Haymitch’s mind had gone wild with thoughts of the Gamemakers gunning after Em and Ced on Day 1, taking away any chances they had of waiting out the Games until it was time to escape. Thoughts of his own children turning on each other, because it had clearly been a huge mistake to trust that their natural sibling love would be stronger than the lies he had told to protect them. Thoughts of Snow taking all of his family away, as the old bastard had already tried to do once with his mother and brother, leaving Haymitch alone for real.

It’s no wonder that he sought solace in a bottle of wine that evening. Anyway, Maysilee had taken it away from him sooner rather than later, so it hadn’t gotten too bad.

But even then, Haymitch hadn’t felt the keen, desperate desire to drown out everything—his thoughts, his feelings, the world—with drink that he does now. Every waking moment, all he sees is everyone’s pitying faces as they offer him their sympathies (with varying degrees of sincerity), and every time he closes his eyes, all he sees are Ember and Cedric. If alcohol weren’t banned in Thirteen, he’s pretty sure he would have drunk himself into a stupor by now, unknowing and uncaring of anything going on around him.

However, the fact is there is no alcohol available, so he’ll have to deal with his grief and pain in a less self-destructive way. And apparently, his wife has decided that one such way is for them to talk to others—namely, their fellow Victors who have also made it to District 13—who knew their daughter and son and to grieve together. Personally, Haymitch really hates talking about his feelings, so he doubts this will do any good for him. But it looks like it’ll at least help Maysilee, so he goes along. Anything for May.

“Cedric could’ve had one of the greatest minds that Panem would have ever seen,” Beetee laments, his face lined with sadness. Ced had idolized the Victor from Three. “A scientist. An inventor. A logician, a chemist. He could have been anything he wanted to be.”

Haymitch thinks of all the times he’s had to get up in the middle of the night to tell his son to stop working on whatever he’s been tinkering with and go to bed. He conjures the memory of his son turning his owlish eyes toward him, large and pleading for just a few more minutes. Sometimes Haymitch resisted, but sometimes he ended up helping his son with whatever project he had, so he’d go to sleep that much sooner. Pain slices through his chest as he realizes he will never again catch Cedric up past his bedtime. Fuck, why is he doing this?

“He would’ve been happy to just be in a room filled with books and gadgets for the rest of his life,” Maysilee murmurs. “He never wanted to become famous scientist or anything like that. Just to keep discovering and learning new things.” Her eyes have been understandably dim of late, but now, as she speaks fondly of their boy, they partially return to their usual bright blue.

Right. That’s why he’s doing this. For May.

Anything for May.

“What kinds of projects did he work on?” Annie Cresta asks softly. The female Victor from Four has only met Em and Ced once, during her Victory Tour a few years back, but she’s attending this melancholic powwow primarily to support Finnick, who has been very quiet and morose since he heard the news.

“We gave him a chemistry set for his birthday one year,” Haymitch hears himself say. “I have no idea what he got up to half the time in his little laboratory, in the shed in our backyard. Last I saw, he was trying to make smoke-bombs, the miscreant.”

Chaff chortles at that. “Little troublemaker, just like his father, eh?”

Haymitch manages a smirk. “Believe me, he hasn’t done anything nearly as bad as I have.” Unbidden, memories of his boyhood, up to no good with Jon and Dell, come to the forefront of his mind. But unlike him, Cedric has never had partners-in-crime to egg him on in his mayhem. His younger son has always been a loner, but Haymitch doesn’t think it was by choice. He simply never got along with other children his age. None of Haymitch’s other children had problems with making friends in school, just Ced. What could he and Maysilee do? They couldn’t force his classmates to be nice to him, and they certainly wouldn’t force Cedric to socialize with kids who made fun of him. All they could do was encourage him to push his own limits and pursue his interests, and hope that one day he would find his own way.

No more of that. Never again.

Mags mumbles something. Finnick, who’s been glumly sitting in silence with his elbows resting on his knees, lifts his head to translate. “She says it’s Ember who was the real troublemaker between the two of them.”

Haymitch snorts. “Don’t I know it.” No one ever believes him when he says he isn’t a sucker for his daughters. He doesn’t even believe himself when he says it. Summer, as the very last of his babies, is the only one of his children who comes anywhere near close to spoiled. Rain, the eldest of his daughters and the one most like their mother, was the first girl to ever capture his heart.

Ember, as the middle of his and Maysilee’s children, could have been so easily forgotten or neglected, what with them training the twins, fussing over newborn Cedric, worrying about Ash after his Games, worrying about Rain alone in the Capitol, and then fussing over newborn Summer. But Ember was never the type of child to _let_ anyone forget about her. Ember’s spunk has always been the quality he’s loved best about her.

The day Em was born is a day that Haymitch has tried to half-burn from his memory—the bad part, that is. He’s happy to hold onto the good half, the half actually about Ember. He remembers the first time she opened her eyes, a small and squirming bundle confused by the new world she’d just come into, and he realized that she alone of all his children had inherited Maysilee’s blue eyes. He’d been a goner then and there.

He remembers all the times she’s gotten in trouble, from little everyday things like pulling the older sibling card on Cedric to bully her way into getting what she wanted, to the rare monumental events like the time she and her friends decided to camp out in the woods overnight but failed to tell any of their parents. Haymitch had never before and never since been so angry or raised his voice so loudly at Ember. And that had been the only time he’d ever made her cry—except once when she was two and he’d accidentally made her trip and skin her knees. But that had been easily remedied with some sweets.

The point is, like Mags said, Ember, although for the most part behaved, has her troublemaking tendencies. And Haymitch has never been able to stay angry at her for long. Every time, he swears he won’t let her off so easily the next time, but he knows better.

No more of that. Never again.

Summer, who’s sitting on his lap, squirms and indicates that she wants to move over to her mother. Haymitch acquiesces and deposits her on Maysilee’s lap. His youngest has been much more subdued than usual, and Haymitch is uncertain how much she’s truly absorbed the news about Ember and Cedric. He knows that Summer has never really seen Ash and Rain as her siblings, what with the sixteen year age difference and their absence from her life. So in her eyes, she’s pretty much an only child now.

“They were like my siblings.” All eyes look to Finnick. “I know they didn’t see me the same way, but...I cared about them, all the same.”

Haymitch’s eldest son and Finnick have a strange friendship that’s hard to wrap your mind around at first, but once you do, you can’t imagine them _not_ being friends. They won successive Games and have only a one-year age gap between them, and both have been—in more ways than one—two of the Victors fucked the most by the Capitol. Ash and Finnick bonded over their self-pity parties and jadedness: not the best ingredients for a lasting friendship. But Haymitch remembers what his son was like before his Games, clever and sarcastic and always loving a good joke. That Ash would have been great friends with Finnick, so why wouldn’t the Ash now be as well?

Some years after Ash and Finnick had struck up their friendship, the latter had begun to hang out with the rest of their family more. Haymitch and Maysilee, knowing too well the power that Snow wields over Victors, thought and said nothing about Finnick’s endless string of “lovers,” except when the boy from Four himself brought up the subject. And they like their son’s friend. As far as they can tell, Finnick helps keep Ash in check. And in some ways, Haymitch and his wife look forward to going to the Capitol each year, because that’s the only time Ash and Finnick are able to hang out, and when they hang out, Ash is more like his old self.

And Haymitch knows that they owe a debt to Finnick. The Victor from Four has never mentioned it; Haymitch wouldn’t even know about it if Snow hadn’t informed him and Maysilee, as yet another thing to hold over their heads. Besides Ash, none of their other children is a Victor, but that seems to make no real difference to Snow in terms of whether he can use them, manipulate, sell them, do with them as he pleases. Having grown up under the public eye, Haymitch’s kids have, at some point or another, all attracted unwanted attention.

“After all, you do have beautiful children,” Snow had told him and May once.

Haymitch has always known that the Capitol has more than its fair share of depraved souls, but he’d never known just how depraved, until Snow had seen fit to share with them some of the offers he’s received over the years, to borrow one of the Abernathy children for a night. Legally, they were untouchable until they were sixteen; not even Snow could breach that. But when the twins hit that fateful birthday, Ash had other problems to worry about, and Rain had been given her unique sort of immunity due to her future Gamemaker status.

Then the days until Ember’s sixteenth birthday trickled away. Haymitch and Maysilee had worried themselves sick that they would receive a very unwanted phone call one day soon, or that a hovercraft or train would come without warning to snatch up their oblivious daughter. They hadn’t wanted Ember to look ahead to her special day with the same fear they felt, so she had known nothing about Snow’s threats.

But her birthday came and went without much fuss. Months passed, and still nothing from the Capitol. He and Maysilee hadn’t dared hope overly much, because it would be just like Snow to play mind games with them, lulling them into a false sense of security. Then, very recently, they’d learned what had happened to spare their daughter from a horrible fate beyond imagining. Very recently, as in mere weeks ago, after they had escaped the Capitol, and Finnick finally confessed to them how he had heard through his network of lovers that Ember’s birthday had been a highly anticipated event amongst certain circles. He’d pulled strings, made deals, and offered favors wherever he could to ensure that she was left unharassed. He also admitted that he wasn’t sure how long he would’ve been able to keep it up, so the sudden advent of the rebellion was quite fortuitous in that regard, otherwise not even he could have kept her safe for much longer.

Haymitch doesn’t hug people outside of his family. But he’d hugged Finnick then.

Now, though, he can’t even tell Finnick that Ember and Cedric had held as much fondness for him as he had for them, because Haymitch knows they didn’t. They didn’t, because Finnick was too good at hiding his affection, a harsh lesson learned from having almost all the other things he’s ever cared about taken away by Snow. So all Haymitch can say instead is, “We know.”

His children will never know what Finnick has done for them. But Haymitch does, and Maysilee does, and they’ll remember.

Cecelia, a Victor from Eight with whom Maysilee gets along very well, chimes in. “They were good kids. There was so much about them for you two to be proud of. The night of their interviews, before the Games, they were magnificent. Both of them. They could have… They could have been…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to. It’s more apt to leave it incomplete, anyway, and allow for them all to wonder about the many possibilities that _could have been_ for Em and Ced.

It becomes too much for Haymitch, and without bothering to excuse himself, he gets up and leaves the room. In the hallway, he sinks against the wall, feeling a headache coming on. But no tears. He and Maysilee finished shedding those in the privacy of their room.

“Hey.” Chaff leans against the wall beside him. “You look like you could use a drink.”

Haymitch laughs bitterly. “When do I not?”

“You’re such a family man nowadays. I almost forget that you’re a miserable bastard deep down.” Chaff reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small flask. “Want some?”

Haymitch stares. “Alcohol is contraband here.”

“Yup.”

“They don’t allow any in the district.”

“There’s always a way. Prohibition never works. I swear it’s legit, not any sort of shitty moonshine that’s gonna kill you.”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He’s better than that.

But damn it all, his children are dead. He deserves a bit of whiskey or brandy or whatever the fuck is in that flask. So Haymitch takes it, and he raises it to his children whom he will never see grow up, and he drinks.

* * *

Finch has been acting skittish lately. I figure out why, once I spot enough of Marvel’s disappointed looks of confusion sent her way and I realize they never seem to be within twenty feet of each other.

“Are you avoiding him?” I ask her, after I wander from my usual place at the front of the pack so I can walk beside her.

“Who?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know whom I’m talking about,” I say dryly. “You’re smarter than that.”

“I’m not avoiding anyone,” Finch says with such a straight face that I almost believe her.

“So you won’t mind if I call for Marvel right now to join our conversation?” I look his direction and raise my voice. “Hey! M—”

Finch slaps her hand over my mouth, muffling my voice. “Fine. I’m avoiding him. Happy?”

I move her hand away. “But why?” I recall my conversation with Marvel when we were hunting after the mutt attack, about his crush on Finch. She can be hard to read sometimes, but I haven’t been getting any vibes from her telling me that she likes him back, or that she even enjoys his presence. Ooh. This might be a little tricky. “Did he, uh, make unwanted advances on you or something?”

She shakes her head, looking suspicious. “How did you know he likes me?”

“How do _you_ know he likes you?”

“It’s not that hard to figure out.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“A few days ago.”

I smirk. “Day Two.” But to be honest, knowing about it isn’t really something to gloat over. I don’t think Marvel is trying to hide it, he just wants a fair shot at Finch—which, if she continues to avoid him, he’ll never get. “So what did he do, then?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I repeat, eyes narrowed. She nods. “Then you’re avoiding him because?”

“I don’t know.”

Ah. Very informative. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Finch’s brow furrows. “I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why he would...like me.”

I feel the strong urge to hug Finch. So I do.

She squirms. “What are you doing?”

“Suffocating you with my arms.”

“I like breathing, thanks.”

I release her and continue walking again, ignoring how people are staring at us for temporarily halting the column. “Do you really have no idea?”

Finch folds her arms. “He thinks I say interesting things and it keeps him on his toes.”

When did he say this to her? I’m guessing sometime after Finch came back. “Well, the way I see it, that means he sees what a wonderful brain you have, and good for him for realizing. Intelligence is one of the better reasons to like someone.”

She frowns. “But…” She trails off and looks away, contemplative. Not wanting to interrupt her train of thought, I wait for her to speak again. When she does, she seems to have completely changed the subject. “Cato thinks you’re pretty.”

Whoa. Where did that topic come from? “I...suppose he does, yes.” I’d have to be blind not to realize Cato is attracted to me. What I don’t realize is why Finch is bringing this up.

“And smart. And funny. And interesting. And—”

Too much. Too much. Too much. “Not that I’m not flattered by your listing off all my supposed virtues, but is there a point to this, Finch?”

“Marvel thinks I’m smart. That’s it. Nothing else. I don’t see how it’s enough for him to like me.”

I blink at her. “How do you know he doesn’t think those other things?”

She looks at me blankly. “Because I’m not any of those other things,” she says matter-of-factly.

Pretty. Funny. Interesting. She really doesn’t think she’s any of those things? “What? Finch—”

“None of this is important,” she blurts out, face turning as red as her hair. “I was being silly. Sorry for wasting your time.”

“No, Finch, wait—”

Well, there she goes. Finch darts to the back of the pack, behind the sled. I could follow her, and I want to. But I’m sure she’d just avoid me as easily as she’s been avoiding Marvel, so there’s no point in stalking her.

Wow. I was not expecting our conversation to turn that direction. I’m actually reminded of some of my girl-talks with Madge back home. Although she nurses a secret tendre for Gale and has never looked in another guy’s direction, that hasn’t stopped her from getting a handful of admirers of her own. Since she’s the mayor’s daughter, the boys are usually too hesitant to approach her, but of course I’ve noticed them sneaking glances at her—I like to keep an eye out for when someone is crushing on my friends. And of course, I duly report these observations to her, which bewilder her because Madge is, admittedly, very quiet in public, so she has no idea what about her has gotten their interest. Katniss is like that, too (although in her case, I take care not to mention Peeta, because he’s currently in the friend-zone, which is already cruel enough).

Now I can add Finch to the list. She’s quiet—but she’s also funny (she’s made me laugh a few times), and smart (goes without saying), and pretty (at least, _I_ think so, in her own unique way), and above all, interesting (her air of mystique really makes you want to learn more about her). I don’t see why she thinks she isn’t crushable.

But it’s not my feelings we’re talking about. It’s Finch’s. So what do I do? Do I corner Finch and make her talk? Do I wait for her to approach me? Do I bully Marvel into lavishing her with compliments? The last one is tempting, but it would probably backfire.

Regardless, I think it’s time that Marvel and I had another chat.

The boy from One has taken my usual spot beside Cato at the front. They’re in the middle of a conversation (comparing ancient and medieval weapon-making techniques versus modern—Careers, I swear), and Marvel is mid-word when I loop my arm with his and drag him off to the side with me, into the woods where we can talk in privacy.

Marvel is nonplussed. “Uhh, if you’re looking for a woodsy makeout session, I think you meant to pick the guy next to me.”

I do not condescend to respond to that. Instead, I forge on with the not-makeout-session reason I hauled him over here. “So why exactly is it you like Finch?”

Marvel is taken aback, but once he gets over it, he looks at me suspiciously. “Are you seriously asking me to confide in you my thoughts about Finch, when you’re closer to Finch than you are to me, and there’s a good chance you’ll spill everything to her the instant this conversation is over?”

He makes this sound so poorly thought out. Which it is. But I’m nosy, and I’m determined to get all the facts of this Finch and Marvel situation. “Marvel, Finch is my friend. But so are you. And right now, you both seem unhappy, so call me a meddler, but I want to try to fix that.” Maybe the two of them should get together. Maybe they shouldn’t. I don’t know which would be better for them. So I’m trying to figure that out.

Marvel’s ears perk up. “She’s unhappy?” he asks, looking perturbed. “But—did she say why?”

“Mmm, more or less, yes.” I hesitate at breaking Finch’s confidence, even though I know information exchanges of this sort usually require that I, you know, exchange information of my own. It’s not like Finch swore me to secrecy, but I think she assumed I wouldn’t go blabbing to someone else, least of all Marvel. “And that’s why I need to know why you like Finch, because the ‘why’ is part of the reason she’s unhappy.”

He looks thoughtful as he considers it. “How will telling you these things help, exactly?”

“Let’s just say...Finch is preoccupied by what you think of her. I’m of the opinion that her reading of your thoughts is inaccurate, and that she really doesn’t have anything to be upset about. If I’m right about you, then that should make her less unhappy, I hope.”

Marvel still hesitates. “Are you going to tell her everything we talk about?”

“Marvel, I promise I won’t tell her anything without your permission. In fact, if we do talk about something that I think she would benefit from hearing, then I would want _you_ to tell her.” I can see him cracking. “Come on, pal. Spill.”

Marvel exhales loudly. “Okay, then.” He drums his fingers against his spear as he gathers his thoughts. “Well. I got interested in her at first because I have this thing for redheads.”

Hmm. I was hoping for something more profound than that. “So if, say, Glimmer dyed her hair red—”

“No, no, no, Glimmer and I would never work out. We’re friends, but no.” He shakes his head. “And the hair is only what turned my head, not what actually made me start liking her.”

Promising. “Which was?”

“You know this already, but Finch is really, _really_ smart. Almost scarily smart. And she doesn’t even try. Back home, everyone just assumes I’m not interested in school or book-learning, like I’m only interested in working out and fighting. Which I do enjoy. But I also just as much enjoy things that are intellectually stimulating.”

“Like the history of spears?”

“Well...yes. Actually, did you know the ancient Romans—eh, never mind that. Anyway, my friends in One always thought I preferred pretty girls over smart girls, and you know, pretty girls have their merits, but if they don’t have much brains, it’s...it doesn’t last long. I get bored if they can’t keep up with the conversation. But I never get bored with Finch. She’s not chatty, true, but when she does talk, it’s always something interesting or informative or surprising. She makes me think. She makes me want to learn more from her. And I like that.”

Wow. If I were Finch, I’d be extremely flattered. But she said that Marvel already told her she says interesting things, and that wasn’t enough for her, apparently. So for her sake (and my own curiosity), I prod a little more. “But do you _also_ think Finch is...cute? Or pretty?”

Marvel purses his lips. “This is starting to feel like a conversation I ought to be having with Cato.”

“Have you talked with him about this yet?”

“I haven’t talked to anyone about Finch, really. Except you, right now.” He scratches his head. “I will admit that Finch isn’t conventionally pretty. But she has a... _striking_ face. You know what I mean? She’s really good at making you forget she’s there, but when you really, _really_ look at her, it’s hard to look away.”

I don’t quite feel this pull towards Finch’s face that Marvel evidently feels, but we’re talking about his feelings here, not mine. And I do get what he means, about her face being striking. Her features are rather narrow and sharp, like a fox, and her face has an almost mystical quality to it. Like Marvel said, sometimes it’s hard to _see_ Finch’s face, because she’s so low-key. But once you see it, it’s hard to forget.

All in all, I see nothing wrong with anything Marvel said, and I really think it would behoove Finch to hear him elaborate on his opinion of her. To me, it looks like Marvel’s crush on her occurred via a series of steps: first her hair, then her intelligence, then pretty much everything else.

I could get behind this pairing.

I’m about to tell him that he should say everything he just told me to her, when it occurs to me that I don’t know for sure if Finch likes him back. She doesn’t seem repulsed by him or his attentions, but I’m not sure if his feelings are reciprocated. Like I told Marvel, he’s my friend too, and I don’t want to encourage him to bare his heart to Finch, only to have it broken. More investigation is required.

Ember Abernathy: Private Eye-cum-Matchmaker.

“I need to talk to Finch,” I begin, and I spot the alarm on his face. “Hey, I promised _I_ wouldn’t tell her anything. And I won’t. I just need to find out for sure how she feels about you.”

Marvel’s face lights up, and he clears his throat. “Uh, any ideas what those feelings may be?”

“Not for certain,” I admit. “That’s why I need to talk to her.”

“Will you let me know?”

I think over it before nodding. “If she doesn’t mind me telling you either way, sure.” But if things work out, maybe I can get her to tell Marvel herself, just as I’m hoping to get Marvel himself to tell her his feelings. I’m going to end up orchestrating their whole conversation at this point. _Finch, say this. Marvel, say that. Finch, reply with this._

Marvel scuffs his shoe on the ground. “Do you think it’s possible she might like me back? Maybe not today, but...would it be possible?”

It’s jarring to see Marvel, who’s usually brimming with confidence, so unsure himself. Maybe he and Finch have more in common than I thought. I sigh dramatically and clasp my hands together, as if swooning. “Oh, Marvel. You’re so funny and kind and thoughtful and cute, but there’s _nooooo way_ I could ever like you.” I drop my arms. “You’ll be fine.”

He looks hesitantly pleased, like he’s cautious of being optimistic but still can’t help hoping for the best. Then he jerks his head as he stares the other way. “Crap. Where’s the pack?”

Whoops. We’ve been so engrossed in our conversation that we’ve stopped walking and have been standing in the same place for the last however many minutes. After exchanging a quick glance, we take off, following the group’s tracks. It doesn’t take long for us to catch up, sweaty and out of breath. Marvel resumes his place ( _my_ place) next to Cato, while I quickly check on Ced, whom I’ve been neglecting today while preoccupied with my matchmaking endeavors. Once I make sure he’s fine, I backtrack to seek out Finch.

As I part ways, Marvel calls after me, “Great makeout session!”

Recalling his comment when I first dragged him away for our conversation, I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I sarcastically blow him a kiss before turning my back on him and searching for his favorite redhead. That is, if I can corner her and stop her from pulling her trademark disappearing act.

* * *

It doesn’t bother him when Ember hooks her arm with Marvel’s and hauls him away into the forest.

It doesn’t bother him when Marvel makes that comment about a makeout session, because it’s Marvel. He makes stupid comments like that all the time.

It doesn’t even bother him when she blows a kiss back at Marvel, because the two of them have the sort of dynamic where things like that don’t mean a thing.

But it does bother Cato when shortly after Ember leaves for another part of the pack, Marvel starts, for lack of a better word, glowing. He also starts to blab away, his enthusiasm bubbling over, and the more he talks, the heavier Cato’s gut feels. And despite his attempts otherwise, the redder his vision.

“Isn’t she great?” Marvel queries, a dreamy expression on his face. “I wasn’t sure what Ember wanted in the woods back there, but I’m very glad she made me go out there with her. I think things are starting to fall in place now.”

Cato is confused by Marvel’s words—and put on edge. “What are you talking about?”

Marvel slings an arm around Cato’s shoulders, grinning like an idiot. “You know, I was starting to give up on all hope she might like me back. But Ember has assured me that isn’t the case.”

What?

“Ember said I’m funny and kind and thoughtful and cute. She’s gotta like me back, right?”

_What?_

“It’s just that Ember said she was unhappy, but not because she doesn’t like that _I_ like her, but—well, it had something to do with _why_ she thought I like her, apparently. So I told Ember why, and she seemed pretty satisfied. I told her—”

“Marvel, go watch the rear.”

The other boy stops mid-sentence. “Well, if you didn’t want to hear it, you could’ve just said so,” Marvel huffs, before departing for the back.

Cato doesn’t watch him go. His head is too busy swimming with various iterations of _What the fuck?_

Since when did Marvel like Ember? And since when did Ember apparently like him back? There is a pang in his chest as he is flooded with imaginings of the guy who’s the closest thing he has to a best friend sneaking around behind his back with the girl whose very smile does strange things to his heart. There is searing heat from his anger, biting cold from his hurt, and pervasive numbness from his realization that everything he’s done—returned to save the pack, rescued _her_ brother from burning to death, sat and talked with her every time she’s looked anything less than happy—has amounted to... _this_. That he’s been played. That the two of them have probably been laughing these last few days, weeks even, at how gullible and stupid he is for thinking he could ever win over Ember Abernathy.

An errant thought flies into his head. _Monsters never get the girl in the end._ Not knowing where it came from, he tries to shake it out, but it sticks stubbornly.

His mind runs rampant with memories of anything and everything that has ever involved both Ember and Marvel at the same time. He can go as far back as the Tribute Center, when the world had still been an entirely different place, with a whole different set of rules. And as a rule, it’s a horrible idea to befriend your fellow tributes, even if they’re in the Career pack with you. But Cato and Marvel had hit it off straight away, way better than Cato has ever gotten along with anyone from back home. One evening, the two of them had gone down to the Training Center for some extra practice, and conversation between them had steered toward the topic of girls. And Cato, against his better judgment, had decided it wasn’t such a big deal to tell Marvel about Ember Abernathy. One of them was going to be dead in several weeks anyway, so it wasn’t like Cato was going to be too concerned about the other boy spilling his secrets.

But now, Cato wonders if the whole time Marvel had been listening, the boy from One had been contemplating his own feelings about the Girl on Fire.

_She’s pretty hot. And not just because of the fire._ Those had been Marvel’s exact words about Ember, as the two of them had lain in wait for the Peacekeepers following them in the arena. Cato had thought that Marvel’s insistence on bringing up the subject of Ember had been inappropriate for the moment but had quickly been distracted by more important things, like the Capitol goons bent on either killing or kidnapping them all. Had Marvel tried to start a conversation about it because he’d wanted to gauge Cato’s own interest as competition?

And don’t even get him started on all the times that Ember and Marvel have gone hunting together. Granted, it’s never the two of them alone who go out, because Cedric and Clove usually hunt as well. But Cato knows for a fact that the four of them rarely stick together as one group, and more than once Ember and Marvel have parted ways from the other two. So they’ve definitely been alone before.

Then there was how in the days after the fire-bombs, while Cato had been recuperating, Marvel and Thresh had assumed his duties. Cato had been far from invalid, but it had taken him time to return to full-strength, and in that time, Ember had consulted as frequently with his temporary substitutes as she’d used to with Cato. Plenty of time for Marvel to talk to Ember. Plenty of opportunity for him to take advantage of the not-so-reconciled rift between her and Cato—despite everything Ember said about putting it behind them—that resulted from Cato’s departure.

Now this. Ember seeking out not Cato but _Marvel,_ dragging _Marvel_ with her for privacy in the woods, returning to the pack all flushed and mussed and red-faced with _Marvel,_ blowing kisses at _Marvel_ in answer to his comment about making out.

Cato senses someone staring at him, and he turns his head sharply to see Cedric watching him with no little wariness. “What?” Cato growls.

“You look angry.”

“And?”

“Do you want—”

“No.”

“Okay.” Cedric wisely returns his attention to his GPS.

Cato stews in silence for the rest of that day’s march, trying and failing not to think about what Ember and Marvel’s woodsy rendezvouses may have involved. As he stews, he realizes that the majority of his anger is directed not toward Ember. He can’t force her to like him back, and he _wanted_ her to pick him of her own volition. If everything he’s done these last few weeks has been insufficient to sway or woo her, well, he has no idea what more he can do. He’d been hopeful that her warm, open countenance toward him meant that there was promise in their future, but obviously it’s just been his wishful thinking again. He can’t be mad at Ember for rejecting him.

No, it’s _Marvel_ he’s pissed at, because Marvel very clearly knew how Cato felt about her, but it seems he didn’t give a fuck about any of that before going after her. Apparently, they aren’t as good friends as Cato thought.

When they stop to make camp, Marvel beelines over to Ember, and Cato sees red. As he seethes and watches them with their heads bent toward each other, whispering, Vidal approaches Cato, starts to ask a question, realizes something is very wrong, and quickly retreats. Cato barely notices the boy from Ten come and go.

Ember heads in Finch’s direction, and Marvel struts toward Cato, grinning like an idiot. “So have you stopped being so pissed off for no reason yet?”

Cato thinks there might be a vein throbbing in his forehead. He looks away. “I don’t know, what have you and Ember been up to all day?”

Because Cato has turned away, he misses the understanding dawning upon Marvel’s face as the other boy realizes what has been going through Cato’s head all day. He also misses the moment that Marvel smirks as he makes the unfortunate decision to have a bit of fun by exacerbating the misunderstanding for a few more minutes. “Oh, you know, the usual. Making out in the woods, taking off each other’s shirts, feeling up her—”

_Fuck it._

Cato slams his fist in Marvel’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friendly reminder that Cato still has a nasty temper, and Marvel can be kind of a dick sometimes. :D
> 
> A oneshot that I wrote for one of my FF.Net readers is online! It’s called “So Says the Fox,” and the prompt was for Finch to be upset about something and go into the woods alone, for Marvel and Cato to save her from a mutt (or some other creature), and for Marvel and Cato to be bromantic. Very fluffy.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please let me know your thoughts!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Game Played Beautifully By Children](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468408) by [PresidentHades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PresidentHades/pseuds/PresidentHades)
  * [So Says the Fox](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6001501) by [PresidentHades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PresidentHades/pseuds/PresidentHades)
  * [Fire Beneath the Ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6446968) by [PresidentHades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PresidentHades/pseuds/PresidentHades)
  * [Gods After Our Own Image](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6583315) by [PresidentHades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PresidentHades/pseuds/PresidentHades)




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